


Close Your Eyes and Think of Me (call out my name)

by elrhiarhodan



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, F/M, Loneliness, M/M, Multi, Physical hurt/comfort, Separation, UST, serious injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 11:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1346278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the anklet comes off, Neal decides he needs to leave New York. He’s too much in love with Peter to stay, and Peter is too conflicted about his own feelings to try and convince him not to leave. Neal ends up in Montreux, Switzerland, and discovers that freedom his meaningless without anyone to share it with. Before he can go home, his life is changed in an instant, and the changes are terrible and permanent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Your Eyes and Think of Me (call out my name)

  
  


  
  
  
  


  
  
**Early November, two years in the future**  
  
It was a chilly morning when Neal left New York. Eight forty-five and the sun was just clearing the roofline of the International Terminal at JFK, the light spilling over the iconic building, casting sharp edged geometric shadows on the busy Departures tier.  
  
Peter’s heart was breaking.  
  
He didn’t want Neal to leave. He didn’t want to lose his best friend and one of the finest men he knew. But he understood why Neal needed to go this time. Ostensibly he wanted to travel, to see the world again. But there were other reasons, too. Things they wouldn’t discuss, because talking about them would make everything all too real. Even so, even as Peter accepted Neal’s need to travel, he wanted to beg him to stay, not to leave him – again. They could work this out; they were smart, clever men.  
  
Too clever, maybe?  
  
No – Peter knew better. With the end of Neal’s contract, with the end of his responsibilities over him, came the end of the legal and moral boundaries that kept them at arms length. El _said_ she was okay with him having a relationship with Neal. Hell, she all but pushed him into Neal’s arms. Peter, though, wasn’t really okay with it. His desires felt wrong and illicit and indefensible, and not because he was a married man. It felt like he’d be taking advantage, using Neal for his own purposes. Neal deserved better than a half-life of lies and hidden meetings. Of never being able to acknowledge what they were to each other. He deserved to live in the sunlight.  
  
Peter just needed time to reconcile, or maybe just to get over it.  
  
He never wondered if Neal felt the same way about him. He wasn’t blind or stupid. And Neal, for maybe the first time in his life, didn’t go after something that he couldn’t have. Ironic – Neal’s forbearance in this was the very thing that made Peter so proud. He saw it as proof that Neal was finally the man he could be, not the con he had been.  
  
There was a small traffic jam at the curb. Peter held out his badge and the uniformed officer waved him into the next open spot.  
  
“I guess it’s time.” Those were the first words Neal had spoken during the entire trip. Peter had picked him up from June’s shortly before eight, and watched as he said goodbye to her. They hugged, and Peter couldn’t help but notice that Neal made no promises about keeping in touch, and June didn’t say anything about her door always being open.  
  
“Yeah.” _Such a simple, stupid sounding syllable._ “You have everything?” Did he really just ask that? As if Neal were an eighteen-year old kid about to depart for his first trip alone.  
  
Neal shrugged. “I don’t need much. I have my passport, my driver’s license. A few things. I can get whatever else I need when I land.” As always, Neal was traveling light – just a single duffle bag. Peter wondered if it was the same one he had been carrying when he was going to meet Kate, the same one he had taken with him when he fled from Kramer.  
  
Peter had been careful not to ask Neal where he was going. He suspected Paris for a start, and then… who knew?  
  
He got out of the car with Neal. This was goodbye. Maybe for a short while; hopefully not forever.  
  
Neal couldn’t meet his eyes – there was a surprising gleam on his cheeks. Peter blinked to keep his own tears from flowing.  
  
“Peter …” Neal held out his hand. “Thank you – for everything.” The moment was horrible, awkward. Too much like another heartbreaking farewell.  
  
He didn’t take Neal’s hand. Instead, he rested his own hands on Neal’s shoulders, forcing the other man to look up.  
  
“I want you to listen to me.” Peter took a deep breath – he’d been practicing this speech in his head for weeks. “Wherever you go, whatever you do, whatever happens, remember that you can always call me. No matter what.”  
  
“Peter – ” There was now a slight hint of exasperation in Neal’s voice. “I’m not going back to the life.”  
  
“I know that, Neal. I believe in you, I have faith in you. But sometimes things go wrong and you might find yourself in a situation that you can’t handle. I am and will always be your friend. If you need help, if you need me – call, email, text. Send smoke signals, whatever you need to do to get a hold of me. Time doesn’t matter – hell, call collect. I promise not to refuse the charges. I’ll come and get you.”  
  
Neal stared at him, wide-eyed in surprise. “Even if I’m in jail?”  
  
Peter gave him a grim smile. “I won’t be a get out of jail free card, but I’ll do everything I can to help you. Be the man I know you are and don’t get yourself arrested.”  
  
Neal grinned at him. “I knew you were going to work that into this speech.”  
  
“I mean it, Neal. You need me, just call. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He hoped Neal understood. “It’s unconditional. No matter where you go, no matter how long you’re gone, just call. Please.”  
  
Neal nodded.  
  
Peter slid his hands down Neal’s arms, wanting to draw him into a hug. But Neal stepped back, disengaging.  
  
“So, this is goodbye.”  
  
Peter nodded, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Or maybe just _au revoir?_ ” There was way too much hope in that question.  
  
Neal hefted his bag and was about to turn to go into the terminal. Peter couldn’t let the moment pass forever. He reached out and pulled Neal close.  
  
“One more thing.” Peter brushed his hand against Neal’s cheek, already a little bristly, before threading his fingers through the dark curls. His thumb swept across Neal’s lips, slightly open in wonder.  
  
“Peter, don’t.”  
  
“Neal – shut up.” And he kissed him. Although he had dreamed of kissing Neal, he hadn’t planned on this now. At best he thought he’d give him a hug, maybe brush his lips against Neal’s cheek. Peter hadn’t intended to make this anything more than a gesture of friendship, of goodbye. But it just happened, and his body sang with it, the unique sensation of those soft lips and the hard, rough cheek against his.  
  
It wasn’t a perfect kiss, it wasn’t the kiss he dreamed of, but it was Neal. Warm and masculine and tasting like his dreams.  
  
Neal opened his mouth, maybe to protest, maybe to acquiesce, and Peter would never know. He felt Neal’s tongue and he answered with his own. What was meant to be just a goodbye kiss – a forbidden taste – become something richer. An indelible stain on his memory.  
  
Neal pulled back, or maybe Peter did. But not too far. Peter rested his forehead against Neal’s.  
  
“This is why I have to go, Peter.”  
  
“I … I know.”  
  
“Goodbye.” Neal pulled back. He shook his head, looking down at the pavement.  
  
“Goodbye, Neal. And remember…”  
  
“I will.”  
  
Peter watched as Neal turned and walked away. He disappeared into the terminal and out of his life.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
**Christmas**  
  
Not even two months out of his anklet, just six weeks away from New York, and Neal was terminally bored. Freedom wasn’t how he remembered it, at least when freedom didn’t entail hiding out under a false name, paying off people to keep the law off your back, always wondering when the law was going to catch up with him. It was nice to be able to come and go as he pleased, with no one looking over his shoulder, or at a screen with his tracking data. But he missed the life he had made; he missed being Neal Caffrey, confidential informant and consultant to the FBI.  
  
 _The F B I._  
  
He said it to himself like Hannibal Lecter did to Clarice Starling in _The Silence of the Lambs_ , emphasizing each sound, granting it ironic weight and importance. But unlike Lecter, he actually believed in the gravitas.  
  
Maybe he should have stayed. He could have, for a year or two. He could have spent the time rediscovering freedom within less restrictive confines. Now, that was an odd word to use, “confines,” he had the whole world to explore, but his mind automatically went to find boundaries that no longer existed.  
  
Nearly four thousand miles away, he could admit it. He missed all of it; the challenges, the camaraderie, the friendships. He missed being in a room full of smart people who looked to him for his own brand of smart. He missed being needed.  
  
And above all, he missed Peter.  
  
He missed him with the aching intensity of a child who has lost his favorite toy, left behind in a careless, unthinking moment. How many times in the past two months had he looked for Peter, his name on his lips, expecting to see him? How many times had he imagined the warmth of Peter’s hand on his arm, his shoulder, the small of his back? He tried to tell himself that it had only been a couple of weeks, to give it some time. But the longing, the loneliness grew worse every damned day.  
  
He wouldn’t think about the promise Peter made to him; because thinking about that promise meant thinking about that kiss.  
  
How could Peter do that? Do that to him, to them? They both knew that he had left New York, left the promise of a good job with the Bureau because of this _thing_ between them. Yet he kissed him with love and respect and desire. Peter had made Neal kiss him back.  
  
It had been a tragedy in the making and Neal refused to allow that to happen. Once, in a fit of drunken melancholy, he told an equally intoxicated Moz about his feelings. The other man blinked at him and simply said that it was about time he owned up to them and then set out telling Neal what an idiot he was for even thinking about having _any_ type of relationship with a Fed. That wasn’t a particularly good evening for either of them. Moz launched into a tirade about The Man and how Neal should have run when they had the chance. Neal ended up leaving his own apartment to wander the streets. Moz just went on and on, not even realizing he had left.  
  
He was alone now. No Moz, no Peter, no White Collar division. _No tracking anklet_. He shouldn’t have been surprised that he felt so adrift. He could also blame his mood on the season. It was nearly Christmas and he tried not to be homesick. Being homesick meant he once had a home.  
  
Neal picked up his car keys. Maybe a drive would clear his thoughts.  
  
A fresh dusting of snow coated the streets of Montreux, but the late afternoon sky had cleared and the traffic was light. He headed out, no destination in mind. Clear of the ancient city, the roads narrowed as he headed into the mountains.  
  
This was one thing that was an improvement on his life in New York: being able to drive, to experience the challenge of the road. He thought about telling Peter about the time he had driven in a mountain road rally and his navigator had gotten carsick. Then he remembered that Peter was no longer part of his life, and probably wouldn’t be interested anyway.  
  
Halfway up a mountain, Neal pulled into a scenic turnout. He got out of his car and watched the sun set over Lake Geneva, and felt a new truth dawn inside him.  
  
In his life, he’s had a few epiphanies. When he was eighteen and Ellen told him his father was a corrupt and murderous cop. In an instant, he went from wanting to be a hero like he once thought his father was, to being a criminal, like he then knew his father to be. When he was thirty-three and standing on the tarmac in a small, private airport – Kate before him, Peter behind him – and he turned around, turned back because he was tired of running. Almost two years later, when Moz gave him that ultimatum, and he refused to go, it was not because he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life on the run, but because he had a life in New York, a good one, a life he’d always wanted.  
  
Neal stood there, leaning back on the warm hood of the car, and made another decision. It was time to go home, go back to the life he should never have left. He wouldn’t call Peter; he’d just show up, a Christmas present waiting to be unwrapped. They’d deal with this unspoken need, they’d find a way. They were Burke and Caffrey and nothing was impossible.  
  
Darkness fell abruptly in the mountains and it was time to go back to Montreux. He needed to make reservations – hopefully he’d be able to get a flight out tomorrow morning. He’d be back in New York in twenty-four hours.  
  
As he eased back onto the road, Neal’s world, his dreams of going home, came to an end.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Peter listened to the briefing, but it was hard to concentrate. The matter at hand involved a serious breach of security at several financial exchanges – Tokyo, London, Moscow and Paris. Legal representatives from each of the markets were participating via teleconference, plus their own local law enforcement, plus translators. The conversation was chaotic, particularly when the Russians and the Japanese were talking at the same time.  
  
He leaned over and whispered to Diana, “Are we getting a transcript of this?”  
  
She nodded. “Yeah, boss. This may be cost-effective, but it’s not getting us anywhere.”  
  
The Japanese and the Russian officials were shouting at each other now, outpacing the speed and skill of the translator. Not for the first time, he wished Neal was here. Peter understood most of the Russian’s invective – it was very creative – but the Japanese was beyond him. He should be grateful that the French weren’t in the thick of things.  
  
They sat through another hour of this bullshit, but none of it actually penetrated. He was antsy, as if he needed to be someplace else. His gut was telling him that there was something wrong, but he couldn’t figure out what. Against protocol, against his own rules, he texted Elizabeth three times during the meeting to make sure she was okay. Each reply was a variation on “I’m fine, now leave me alone.” It hadn’t been this bad even during the weeks and months after her kidnapping.  
  
The meeting ended with nothing accomplished, and Peter went back to his office to try and make sense of what was going on. He wasn’t psychic – not more than anyone else. Yet he had learned to ignore this feeling at his own peril.  
  
A half hour spent reviewing his caseload, checking in with family and friends on the pretext of wishing them a happy holiday, lead him nowhere. Because the one friend he couldn’t check in with was probably the one sending his gut into turmoil. Peter sighed and went to the TSA’s law enforcement portal. A few clicks and he could locate Neal, if he had kept his promise to travel under his own name.  
  
He didn’t complete the search request. Neal had made it clear that he needed to make this break. And it wasn’t Peter’s responsibility to keep tabs on him anymore. They were friends, yes. Which meant that there were boundaries. Neal wanted to make a clean break and Peter had to respect that. If Neal wanted Peter to know where he was, he would have been in touch. A postcard. An email. A goddamned smoke signal.  
  
He turned around and looked out onto the New York City skyline. It was dressed for winter, gray skies turning dark by mid-afternoon. The Christmas decorations and festive lights were gone for the year. It was a cold one and there was snow and ice crusted on all of the buildings. Neal left in November, right before Veterans’ Day. That was two months ago. Peter hadn’t heard anything from his friend since he disappeared into the airport terminal. He hadn’t expected to.  
  
That didn’t mean that Peter was going to forget about him. For the better part of four years, Neal Caffrey had been the driving force in his life, good and bad, but never indifferent. He missed that, he missed Neal. It was going to take more than two short months for the rhythms of his life to adjust to Neal’s absence, even if he wanted it to.  
  
Neal had given him an email address that he promised to check on a regular basis, but that was just for emergencies. Maybe this would qualify as an emergency. But what would he say? _Missing you, let me know what you’re doing, how you’re doing._ So damn pathetic.  
  
Their parting was imprinted on him, now. He could still taste Neal on his lips, the very essence of him. He could feel the slight roughness of his cheeks, and the smoothness of his mouth and the warmth of his body pressed against him. If he closed his eyes, he could feel the echo of Neal’s shock, and then his acquiescence. The sudden chill as Neal stepped away.  
  
Peter shivered at the memory. His gut still roiled and he still worried. But he couldn’t do anything about it. Except that the TSA screen was still up on his computer monitor. He typed “Neal Caffrey” and his finger hovered over the Enter key.  
  
“Boss?” Diana interrupted him. She was holding a thick, well-worn folder.  
  
Peter cancelled the request and dismissed the screen. “What have you got?” He gestured for her to come in. She sat down and then started pulling apart the details of the securities fraud he was supposed to be working on, instead of chasing ghosts.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
**April**  
  
Neal’s world, his freedom, was reduced to a space three feet wide and six feet long. It wasn’t filled with dirt; although there were many times that Neal wished he could exchange this hospital bed for a coffin and a grave. Pain was his constant companion, an angel with sharp claws and wings made of knives, not feathers.  
  
The doctors told him that he was a lucky man. He had been sideswiped by a truck barreling down the mountain, its lights off. It hit him and just kept going. Had a police car not be trying to get the truck to pull over, he might have died there on that lonely road.  
  
That thought alone kept Neal going. No one knew where he was and he had made a point of cutting all ties, even with Moz. But that meant that no one would know if he was dead. During brief periods of lucidity, when the drugs stopped fogging his brain but before the pain started ripping at his sanity, Neal obsessed about that. The thought shocked him – that he could have died and everyone he left behind would still think he was alive.  
  
Not that it made him want to reach out and let them know what happened. They didn’t need a cripple in their lives.  
  
And he was crippled. Both legs were broken – multiple fractures. His hip was shattered so badly it needed a complete replacement. His left arm and wrist were broken too, his clavicle snapped where the seatbelt restrained him. His face – he didn’t want to think about his face. The airbag broke his nose, and there were extensive lacerations on his cheek and forehead. At least his jaw wasn’t broken. The doctors said that with time and therapy, he would walk again.  
  
Provided he survived the rest of his injuries.  
  
That list was too long and Neal knew that he’d break down if he started thinking about the damaged kidneys, the missing chunk of liver, the spleen that he’d never have again.  
  
He was partially paralyzed – but the doctors said that was from swelling due to the trauma in his spinal cord, and not permanent. He was on dialysis until his kidneys started functioning again. And one of the biggest problems was going to be preventing infections from the inevitable bedsores.  
  
But he was alive and they were doing everything possible to keep him that way. He just wasn’t sure if it was worth it.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Spring was slow in coming this year. After two years of mild winters, it felt like there was a new ice age approaching. It was April and there was still a foot of snow on the ground. Peter couldn’t help but wonder if it was because Neal was gone. And he immediately chastised himself for that magical thinking. It wasn’t as if it never snowed when he was here – it just never seemed quite so bad, so endless.  
  
He felt lost, rudderless. It wasn’t like when Neal ran after that debacle with Kramer. There was a fundamental difference between then and now. He had always known, deep down, that he’d be able to bring Neal home. There was fear, too, that it could end badly for all of them, but underlying everything was the inevitability that he could make things right. Neal was under his watch, it was his right to make sure he was safe.  
  
Not anymore. Neal was a free man, able to make his own choices, right or wrong. He just hoped that Neal was making all of the right ones. No – he was certain that Neal was making the right ones. He had to be, otherwise he’d lose everything.  
  
El wanted to know why he didn’t go after Neal. She’d been appalled that Peter let him go in the first place. She wanted to talk to Neal, to tell him that she was okay with them, whatever _them_ was. He told her not to. If Neal needed to go, it would be wrong to coerce him into staying. But Peter wasn’t really fooling himself. He knew it wouldn’t be coercion if he told Neal the truth. That he loved him, that El loved him, loved them both. That they could have a life together. That there was no need to leave New York.  
  
From the moment he watched Neal disappear into the airport, Peter regretted his silence. He regretted being an honorable man. He should have used everything in his power to keep Neal here, by his side. _Under his body. In his bed_. But he couldn’t turn back the clock, no matter how much he wished he could.  
  
“Hon?” El came into the room and hugged him from behind.  
  
He turned around and hugged her back, tilting up her face and kissing her. “Hmmm, love you.”  
  
“Love you, too.” Sometimes they needed all the words, not just the shorthand that so many years of marriage inscribed on their souls. He held her, resting his cheek on her head, trying to will away the melancholy.  
  
“Come to bed?” She pulled away and held out her hand.  
  
Peter let himself be led; he let Elizabeth take charge and set the pace of their love -making. He wasn’t distracted, he certainly didn’t wish she was someone else, but there was a ghost haunting him tonight. And for the first time, Peter was glad that El wasn’t a post-coital cuddler. He kissed her shoulder as she rolled over, murmuring her love and satisfaction. But he found no such peace.  
  
Once he was sure that Elizabeth was asleep – her not-so-delicate snores were always a good indicator – Peter left their bed and went downstairs. He was restless but not sure what to do about it. This wasn’t his first sleepless night since Neal left, and it wasn’t going to be his last. The aching, nagging worry was inescapable. Maybe if he knew where Neal was, he’d be able to relax.  
  
Peter booted up the laptop, logged in to the FBI servers via a secure VPN connection and accessed the TSA portal. Just what he been avoiding for the last five months. He typed in “Neal Caffrey,” didn’t let himself think and hit “Enter.” Peter got a quick response. The last time Neal’s passport had been used was the day he left New York. He had gone to France. The morning he dropped Neal off. The morning he kissed Neal.  
  
Bile flooded the back of Peter’s throat. Neal had lied. He was using another alias. Unless...unless he was only traveling in the EU. There were no passport checks at border crossings any more. It was just possible that Neal was making Paris his home base and moving around the Continent. But still, Peter felt compelled to check Neal’s other aliases. When they came up empty, the relief made him dizzy.  
  
Okay – so Neal was in Europe. Peter’s hand hovered over the mouse; it would take a few clicks to call up a list of recent Interpol BOLOs. But he didn’t. Neal was traveling under his own name, he wouldn’t be screwing up.  
  
He didn’t allow himself to think that Neal had cooked up other names, other identities. No, Neal wouldn’t do that, not anymore. He had promised.  
  
But Peter still couldn’t go back to bed. There was a hunger in him that seemed like a betrayal of everything that he stood for. Instead, Peter went to the bookcase and picked up the photo of the two of them in their tuxes … their “prom picture.” He brushed a finger against the glass, as if this cold two-dimensional image would bring back the sense memory of what it was like to touch the man.  
  
In the early morning hours, the house was quiet, the street quiet, and Peter heard Elizabeth’s footsteps as she came down the stairs. He carefully replaced the photo on the bookshelf and turned around.  
  
“El, I’m –”  
  
“Peter, please – don’t apologize. I’ve got eyes in my head; I’ve seen just how much you miss him.” She joined him at the bookcase, picking up that photo. “I saw it when I took this picture – I’ve always seen it. You know that.” She rested her head against his shoulder. “So – what’s the matter?”  
  
“I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.” He explained how he just traced Neal’s passport. “Why can’t I let go, hon? Am I going to feel like this forever?”  
  
“There’s so much undone between you two – you let him go because you had to. Neal left because he thought he had to. I’m not saying that either of you were right or wrong. And I absolutely believe that you will see Neal again. Your story isn’t over.”  
  
Peter had to smile; El unconsciously echoed Neal’s words from so long ago. And then he shivered in remembrance, because that story had come to such a terrible end.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
**October**  
  
“Mr. Caffrey, time for your physio.”  
  
The therapist, Robbie, was a cheerful young man. From his accent, he sounded like a Geordie – someone from Newcastle in England. Neal remembered a con he had pulled with Keller in days long gone, something to do with old Roman coins. He was in too much pain to remember the details, but the nurse’s broad English accent brought back fond memories – the rush of the con, the triumph at their success.  
  
He used those feelings to block out the humiliation of having the catheter removed and his body cleaned. The hands were gentle, but his skin was tender and the gloves snagged on his pubic hair, a small hurt among many. Neal endured, he had no choice. When everything that needed to be done to him was done, Robbie and an orderly carefully helped him from the bed into a padded wheelchair. “Hope you like water, we’re going to do some hydrotherapy today.”  
  
 _I used to love to swim._  
  
He kept his eyes closed as two male aides stripped him, lifted him out of the chair and into a warm pool. He didn’t want to see the damage to his body. If he couldn’t see it, he could still pretend he was whole.  
  
The casts were off his arm and legs, but there were still more surgeries planned. His right kneecap had been shattered and replaced. The tendons had been grafted onto the artificial patella, but because of the bone damage, the grafts had been compromised and would have to be replaced. And his left arm and wrist were going to need significant muscle and tendon reconstruction, three or four more surgeries, at least.  
  
Not that Neal was able to walk. The pain was excruciating, and he still couldn’t put any weight on his legs. The damage to his upper body made it impossible to carry his own weight. They strapped him into a support contraption that held him vertical, but it didn’t support his body. He tried to take a step and had collapsed into a pile of pain and humiliation.  
  
The water, at least, gave him some buoyancy, the illusion of self-propulsion.  
  
“How are we doing, Mr. Caffrey?”  
  
“ _I’m_ doing fine, thank you. I’d just appreciate it if you didn’t talk to me like I was a child. Or you were the fucking Queen of England.” Neal snapped back. Robbie was way too cheerful, and the fake emotions were grating on his nerves.  
  
But the nurse, used to ill-tempered patients, didn’t comment on Neal’s bad mood. He helped Neal move his body and when Neal reached the end of his resources, signaled for an orderly to get him out of the pool.  
  
The rubdown made all the humiliations worth it. It wasn’t just skilled hands soothing his sore, debilitated muscles; it was the illusion of being touched by someone who cared. Neal closed his eyes and imagined that those hands belonged to Peter. The fantasy wasn’t arousing, not because his body couldn’t respond, but because that wasn’t what he wanted now. Neal wanted the connection, the simple concept of friendship – since anything else was impossible.  
  
The masseur’s name was Hans-Peter, and if Neal kept his eyes shut and said, “Peter, that feels so good,” who was going to care?  
  
The massage was the second best part of his pathetic day. They let him doze on the table for a few minutes. Reality came back in a shameful rush as a nurse flipped him over and replaced his catheter. They dressed him and wheeled him into the solarium, where he could doze with the rest of the enfeebled patients.  
  
At least he was wearing the best hospital garb his money could buy. And he fit right in. This clinic had been his home for the last three months. The hospital in Montreux, where he had been taken after the accident, held a small celebration when the team of doctors who had kept him alive against the odds, pronounced him well enough to be moved into a very exclusive, very private rehabilitation clinic. This place, on the shores of Lake Geneva, was an expansion of a nineteenth century sanatorium, where the wealthy from all over Europe would send their sick and infirm to be cured, out of sight and out of mind.  
  
The scenery was beautiful, especially at dawn, when the sun rose and sent streamers of light across the lake. It was still as beautiful as Turner’s painting, despite the passage of time and the technological triumphs of man.  
  
But the view in the early morning wasn’t why it was it was Neal’s favorite part of the day. That was the time when he could hear Peter’s voice.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
“Explain to me again why you need to go into the office this late on a Sunday night?” El was clearly irritated. It was almost eleven, usually the time that they were getting ready for bed.  
  
“Because we have to speak with people in Europe and Asia, and they’re insisting on a secure line.” Peter was aggravated too, but it was his job, and getting upset at having his Sunday night truncated like this wasn’t going to help matters.  
  
“Why can’t …”  
  
Peter anticipated the question. “I don’t know – and yeah it’s not fair. But fairness only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.”  
  
El blinked. “That’s ‘almost’. If you’re going to quote Green Day song lyrics to me, at least get them right.”  
  
Peter chuckled and kissed his wife. “Don’t wait up for me, hon.”  
  
She gave him a look that clearly said, _You’ve got to be kidding?_  
  
Peter deemed this call to be all hands on deck for his senior team, which meant Diana and Clinton, Price, Wesley and Blake. If he had to be in the office at midnight, so did everyone else. In nearly a year, they had made no progress on the security breaches in the financial markets, and everyone was still pointing fingers, refusing to share information, or even give the most minimal assistance.  
  
After almost two hours, Peter was considering ending the call and taking control of the local operation. There was only so much international infighting he could take. The telephone in his office rang, shrill and insistent. Of course, the Russians chose that moment to ask him a question and Diana went to answer the phone.  
  
She came back, shrugged and whispered, “No one there. A wrong number, I guess.”  
  
To everyone’s shock, they started making actual progress. Not on finding the perpetrators, but on a working format. Unfortunately it meant subverting his team’s living schedule – they’d need to have regular teleconferences at the wrong hours of the night.  
  
Clinton shook his head. “Good thing I’m single, and it looks like I’m going to stay that way for the foreseeable future.”  
  
“Ditto.” Diana replied.  
  
Peter yawned, stretched and dismissed everyone. These next few weeks were going to be difficult and they would all need their rest.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
  
  


  
  
**Early December**  
  
“Come on, Herr Neal.”  
  
He was locked into the support harness, his right arm gripped against the bar, left one into a brace. An aide stood behind him, to catch him when he fell. Neal tried to take a step, but he couldn’t. The last surgery was yet another setback. The grafts on his right knee were rejected and he was facing an even longer recovery. Matters became more complicated when an infection set in, sending him back to the hospital and ICU for almost two weeks.  
  
He felt weak and useless. Whatever progress he had made was gone.  
  
The therapist, Dietrich according to his name tag, was insistent. “You must start walking.”  
  
He glared at him and resisted the urge to make a nasty crack about Nazis. “I can’t.” He clung to the bar, unable to move forward or backward, unable to stand but too afraid to fall.  
  
“One step, that’s all you need to take. Right leg. Left leg. Then we’re done.”  
  
“No. Please let me sit. I can’t.”  
  
The therapist was merciless. He pulled something out of his pocket, something Neal recognized instantly. It was his cell phone.  
  
“Give that back.” A sudden burst of rage lent strength to his voice.  
  
Dietrich waggled it. “Come on, Herr Neal. One step and you can have this back.”  
  
Neal didn’t move, he just repeated his demand. “Give it back.” He couldn’t hold out a hand. If he let go of the bar, he’d fall.  
  
“One step – that’s all you need to take.”  
  
The adrenaline -fueled rush faded too quickly. His arm started to shake and his grip slipped. “Please, give me my phone back.”  
  
“Take a step.” The therapist was implacable.  
  
“I can’t. Please.” He needed his phone. He couldn’t bear if anything happened to it. With everything that had happened to him – prison, Kate, Adler, the mess he had made of his life after Moz stole the treasure, his flight from New York and the struggles after coming back – Neal had never begged for anything. But now, he couldn’t do anything but beg. “Please, give it back to me.” He felt the tears start. Desperate and aching and he hated them, he hated the weakness, the neediness.  
  
“If you don’t take a step, I’m keeping your phone.” Dietrich put it back in his pocket.  
  
Neal didn’t want to be like this, broken and ruined. He wanted to take the step – he wanted to walk again. He wanted something of a life back. And he wanted his cell phone more than anything else. Clinging to the bar with the last of his strength, Neal pushed his left leg forward.  
  
“Good, good. You can do it. I know you can.”  
  
Neal could feel the aide behind him, ready to catch him when he collapsed. But he wasn’t going to give up. His right leg, locked into a brace, dragged forward a few inches. Dietrich didn’t say anything. Neal took a deep breath and tried to push himself forward, to get one foot in front of the other. To take that damn step.  
  
He managed it, he didn’t know how, but he took that one step. A wheelchair rolled up behind him, he was unhooked from the safety harness, and eased into the seat. Neal held out his hand for the phone, and Dietrich gave it to him.  
  
“If you ever do that again, I will break you.”  
  
The therapist smiled. “Good, then we’ve made progress.”  
  
Neal gripped the phone as tightly as he had held onto the support bar in the therapy room. It was just a phone, nothing special about the model, but it was the only thing in his life that kept him sane.  
  
The aides bathed and dressed him. They were going to park him in the solarium, where the winter sunlight warmed the glass -enclosed space. But today, Neal couldn’t bear it – the room was decorated for the holidays, in the best European tradition. It only served to remind him that it was a year since his life had ended. More than a year since he turned his back on the only thing that mattered, the only people that matter.  
  
His room was private, and if it wasn’t for the medical equipment, the special bed, the call button, it could have been a luxury hotel room. And like any fine hotel, he paid extra for the view.  
  
Tucked into a recliner, Neal stared out over the chilly and serene waters of Lake Geneva, the French Alps in the distance. Alone again, or at last (did it matter which?), he pulled out the damn phone, his precious connection back to the world he left behind. He launched the photo app and the images of his friends – his family – glided by. He had looked at them so many times, but each time the pain and the pleasure was just as fresh. There was Jones in the surveillance van. Diana, giving him the stink-eye at the office. There was the Harvard Crew, celebrating a major closure. June, Moz, Cindy and Samantha, Bugsy, too. Sara, scowling and smiling and beautiful. Alex, pissed off that he took her picture. Other women, Maya in the café; an old one of Kate – the hurt was still there, but it was an echo of another life, another man, one who was whole and healthy and happy.  
  
Neal held his breath as the best pictures flashed on the screen. Elizabeth and Peter – laughing and goofing around. Peter in a loose t-shirt and jeans, El in a casual blouse and skirt, unbelievably, deliciously braless. Neal remembered when he took those pictures. It was a Sunday afternoon, Moz was away, and he had come around, lonely and bored, and Peter put him to work fixing the kitchen sink.  
  


_“You know your way around a torch and brazing rod, right?”_

_He chuckled and stepped back, hand up. “Metal isn’t my medium, you know.”_

_“But safes and security bars are.” Peter popped a safety mask on his head and pushed him towards the sink._

_“I don’t think my contract with the Bureau extends to your home improvement projects.”_

_“Hmmm, and I don’t think the terms of your parole include many things that you do on a regular basis. Besides, if we’re going to feed you tonight, you should make a small effort to earn it.”_

_“Yeah, yeah – I know the speech.”_

_He had made quick work of the repair, managing not to burn himself or set the kitchen on fire. Truthfully, he had enjoyed it – enjoyed Peter kneeling next to him, handing him tools, keeping him busy. Making him part of their lives._

  
  
This last picture was his favorite. Elizabeth had taken it; it was just the two of them, a little grubby from the work but so damn pleased with themselves. He looked at it until the image was imprinted on his eyes. He could build epic fantasies around it. Sometimes the fantasies were of a life with just him and Peter – those were guilty and horrible and he hated them, hated himself for even imagining them, because Elizabeth Burke was not someone who could simply be disappeared, even in a fantasy. There were others, better ones, where the three of them lived in perfect and beautiful harmony. The configurations were never set in stone. He could pretend to be a friend, just someone who shared the best parts of their life, but never crossing the line between what was right and what he really wanted.  
  
Or he _could_ be their lover, their dirty secret, and it wasn’t shame he felt. Neal looked at himself, even dressed, he was still a wasted thing, unfit for the impossibility of their loving hands.  
  
There was one more fantasy, the worst of all. It made him sweat and cry, but he couldn’t help himself. Like all the other ones, it centered on Peter. He found him again, not on the run, not in jail, but here. He found him and took him home, cared for him, made him get well. And when he was all healed, they would race up the stairs and tumble into bed, all three of them, they’d kiss and no one would care about his scars and they’d make love and everything would be perfect and wonderful and he’d never have to go anyway because El would curl up in his arms and Peter would be behind him, his own arms beloved shackles chaining him there forever.  
  
The images, the story spun out behind his eyelids, Peter striding into the clinic. He’d see Neal, his body wasted and obscene, but there wouldn’t be any disgust in his eyes. He’d look at Neal like he was the most precious thing in the world. His fingers would be gentle as they brushed the curls from his forehead, tracing the scars. He would place a soft, sweet kiss on his brow, another on his lips and ask. “Isn’t it time to come home to those who love you?”  
  
The tears streamed out from under Neal’s eyelids. He tried to stop, he didn’t want this dream. He couldn’t bear the thought of Peter seeing him like this, feeling duty-bound to take care of him. Seeing whatever love that was there wither and die in the face of obligation.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
  
The French representative did a fine job of shouting everyone down, everyone but the head of cyber security for the German DAX. Peter and his team watched and listened in near awe as the two law enforcement agents screamed at the top of their lungs.  
  
At least they were using English, so it was understandable as well as entertaining. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter noticed a line light up on his office phone, but didn’t bother to go to answer it. It was probably just a robo-call or a wrong number. His phone rang almost every time he was here after hours. Jones and Diana got calls too, but there was never anyone at the other end of the line.  
  
He caught Clinton’s eye and shrugged. Diana was falling asleep and to be honest, he felt guilty about dragging his team into the office two or three nights/mornings a week. Whatever progress they’d made since early November had long since evaporated. These bi-weekly teleconferences were a waste of time and resources.  
  
Peter interrupted the squabbling Europeans and advised them that they were signing off. He didn’t wait for a response before terminating the connection.  
  
“Guys, you’re done.” Diana woke up at Clinton’s nudge. It was just the three of them. He had told Price, Blake, and Wesley to stop attending weeks ago.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“It’s pointless to keep dragging you in for this shit. Until I say otherwise, you don’t have to come in for these calls. If I need you, I’ll let you know. Otherwise, I’ll brief you in the morning.”  
  
“Peter – ” Jones began a half-hearted protest.  
  
“Nope, my mind’s made up. I need you to run the daylight shift, not play vampire so the Bureau has better numbers in attendance than those jackasses overseas.”  
  
Both of his agents gave him their heartfelt thanks, and they all packed up and went home.  
  
Three nights later, as Peter settled himself in his office, he thought that this was actually a better arrangement. As much as he enjoyed his team, taking these mostly futile meetings in the conference room meant he couldn’t multitask. The IT department hooked his computer into the secure video conferencing system, attached a small camera to his monitor and he was now able to take the calls and actually get some work done at the same time.  
  
It wasn’t close to an even tradeoff for having to be at the office in the wee small hours of the morning, but it was an improvement, to say the least. The call came through; he lowered the volume and worked through a half-dozen reports while the Russians and French continued their argument. Around a quarter past one, his desk phone rang. He muted the teleconference, and without thinking, picked it up and answered.  
  
“Peter Burke, how can I help you?” It was automatic; he certainly didn’t expect anyone on the other end of the line.  
  
Instead of the click of a computerized system transferring the call to an operator, or even a dial tone, there was a very audible gasp on the other end and suddenly an abrupt click as the call disconnected. Peter couldn’t say what prompted him, but he heard himself asking, “Neal? Is that you?”  
  
Peter stared at the handset for a moment before carefully replacing it. The talking heads on the conference call all seemed to be looking at him, and he turned the volume back up with an apology. For the next few hours, he gave the participants his full attention. It was nearly dawn before the conference call ended and Peter decided to stay in the office. He needed to talk with the IT department as soon as they arrived.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Neal gripped his cell phone so hard he could feel the edges of it cutting into his hands.  
  
For almost a year, as often as he was able to, he had called Peter’s office early in the morning, Geneva time. He needed to hear Peter’s voice, even if it was just a recording:  
  


_“Hello, you’ve reached the office of Special Agent Peter Burke, in the White Collar division of the FBI. I’m not at my desk right now, so please leave a brief message with your name, telephone number and the purpose of your call. If this is an emergency, please press Zero for the operator, and ask for Special Agent Clinton Jones or Special Agent Diana Berrigan. They will be able to assist you.”_

  
  
Sometimes, when he was falling into despair, he’d call Diana’s office line and Clinton’s too. With the six hour difference, Neal never thought he’d have to worry about any of them actually picking of their phones. All-nighters weren’t spent at the office, but in surveillance vans or on stakeouts.  
  
Hearing Peter’s live voice was shocking. Neal’s heart started beating so hard he thought it would burst out of his chest and take flight. The joy warred with fear, aided by shame, and he quickly disconnected.  
  
The temptation to shatter this phone, to toss it away, was terrifying. Until his accident, he never thought twice about disposing of his cell phones. They were called burner phones for a reason – nothing was irreplaceable except for his freedom. But now, when he was trapped in a prison, sentenced by circumstance, it seemed as if this phone and its contents were irreplaceable (though truly anything could be replaced). It was just that the phone – this physical thing that he purchased at Charles de Gaulle when he landed – was the last remnant of a life that was supposed to be filled with freedom.  
  
And even if he could get everything back, it wasn’t as if Peter could trace him here. There were no thunderstorms or Spanish bells. There were no sounds in this room at all. It was just a fluke that Peter was in the office and answered his phone. It wouldn’t happen again.  
  
Neal let his grip relax and he slipped the phone into his pocket. He’d wait a few days before calling again, when he was strong enough. Especially now that he had the memory of Peter’s voice calling his name.  
  
Snow was falling, great big flakes that disappeared into the lake. It would be Christmas in a few days, he could hold off calling Peter until then. That would be his present, something to look forward to.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Peter scrubbed at his face, his eyes were crusty and he had that nasty wired-tired buzz from too much bad coffee and not enough sleep. It was eight-thirty and the staff was wandering in, bright and chipper, anticipating the holidays next week. He should be, too, but Neal’s absence was still a gaping hole in his life.  
  
Most days were okay, he could now get through them without looking for his friend, his partner. Yet there were always moments, quiet and unguarded, where he’d say something and look up, wondering why Neal hadn’t answered. Because Neal wasn’t there, and he never would be again. The dream he had of Neal returning, of him just appearing at the front door, was discarded a long time ago. He wasn’t coming back, and he had to accept that. Even the emails that Peter sent to the emergency address bounced back – the account had been closed.  
  
Suddenly, he couldn’t take it any longer. All the nagging worry, the incipient dread that had been dogging him came roaring back. The psychiatrist he had seen briefly last year said he had a mild anxiety disorder, not uncommon in men of his age. He recommended weekly talk sessions and a low dose of Prozac. He declined both. He knew what his problem was, and it had nothing to do with brain chemistry and everything to do with Neal’s absence in his life.  
  
Peter dialed the IT department for the fourth time since eight o’clock, frustrated that no one was picking up. To his relief, someone did answer this time, and Peter asked her to come to his office ASAP.  
  
Diana, festively dressed in red and gold, popped into his office. “How did the call go last night?”  
  
“Call?” How the hell did Diana know that his phantom caller could be Neal?  
  
“Yeah – were the French still overplaying the outrage card?”  
  
“Oh – that call.”  
  
“Boss, what call did you think I was talking about?” Diana looked at him critically. “And did you even go home last night?”  
  
Peter leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Maybe saying it aloud would make it seem more plausible. “You know those calls we’ve been getting?”  
  
“The ones where no one leaves a message?”  
  
“Yeah – those.” He swallowed. “I think they’re from Neal.”  
  
Diana looked as puzzled as he felt. “How? Why?”  
  
“Don’t know.” He shook his head. “My desk phone rang last night – this morning,” Peter corrected himself. “I picked it up on the first ring. There was someone on the other end of the line, I could hear it. Whoever it was waited a few seconds and hung up. My gut tells me it’s Neal.”  
  
“But why would he be calling us and not leaving a message? Why our office lines, when he has our cell phones, our home phones? This doesn’t make sense.”  
  
“I know, Di. I just can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong, that Neal’s in trouble.”  
  
A middle-aged woman with an FBI staff badge knocked on the door frame. “Agent Burke? I’m Eleanor Perza from IT, you wanted to see me? You’re having computer problems?”  
  
Diana didn’t leave, clearly invested in the problem now.  
  
Peter explained. “Not computer problems – telephone. For a while, I’ve been getting phantom calls very early in the morning – around one or two AM. I’ve been letting the calls go to voice mail, except for this morning. I picked up and someone was on the other end. I don’t think it’s a security issue, but I was wondering if there was a log of incoming calls.”  
  
Eleanor nodded and chuckled. “Of course we have that, we’re the FBI. We keep logs of everything. How far back do you want to go?”  
  
Peter didn’t need to think hard. “Can you get me the incoming call logs for my phone, for Agent Berrigan’s and Agent Clinton Jones, too, for the last twelve months?”  
  
“Sure thing. We also can run a trace on the incoming calls. This is government property so you won’t have to worry about a warrant for a pen register.” Peter blinked. Of course IT would have to know that. Eleanor continued, clearly excited by the prospect of an interesting project. “I’m presuming that your caller isn’t using a landline – that would be too easy. And even if they’re using cell phones, it won’t take much to identify the cell towers from where the call originated, but as you know, the call still needs to stay live for at least two minutes to get a pinpoint location. I’ll send you the forms to sign off. Once I get them, I can set this up before the end of the day.”  
  
Peter looked at Diana. She shrugged. “You really think the caller is Neal?”  
  
“Yeah, I do.” He turned to Eleanor. “Do it.”  
  
“Sure thing – I’ll email you the call logs too, but that may take a few days – we’re short staffed for the holidays.” The woman left and Peter leaned back in his chair, weary and upset.  
  
“Go home, Peter. You look like death warmed over.”  
  
“Thanks, Di. You really know how to boost my ego.” But Peter took her advice. To his disappointment, El had already left for the day. He wanted to tell her, and yet, he didn’t. Dealing with Diana’s skepticism was bad enough; he didn’t want to hear Elizabeth tell him he was chasing ghosts.  
  
Winter was back with a vengeance, coating the city with a layer of icy sleet. Peter stripped and climbed into bed, the muffled tap-tap-tap of ice pellets against the windows was a soothing rhythm and he fell into a deep, dream-filled sleep.  
  


He was back in Cape Verde, but there was no Collins, no threat of capture or life in prison. The boy had stolen his wallet and he was chasing him through the streets. And as he ran, the memory faltered, changed. The streets were still cobblestone, but the sky was different – gray, cloudy, cold. He wasn’t in Praia anymore, and he knew these streets. They were just as steep but many centuries more ancient.

This was Paris in the winter, well more than a dozen years ago. Hot on the trail of Neal Caffrey and a series of brilliant forgeries, Peter had a tip that his suspect was living near Sacre Coeur. Probably not a garret apartment; despite Caffrey’s well-deserved reputation as an artist, he was a man who enjoyed his creature comforts. No, he had a well-furnished _pied à terre_ that Peter was planning on casing.

Except that Caffrey had spotted him and ran. Up and up and up the hill; Peter chased him into a church. There was no way out except past him, or so he thought. He was wrong. Neal bolted up the bell tower stairs, Peter following, nearly out of breath. He made it to the top – a few seconds behind. It was cold and windy, snow falling.

This was not how it happened in reality. Neal hadn’t run up the tower stairs, he had ducked into a small side chapel, and then doubled back behind Peter, escaping out the vestry doors.

Even dreaming, Peter recognized that he was melding two realities – young, impulsive and reckless Neal Caffrey, thrilled by the chase, and the older man, honed by hardship and loss, the man he thought of as his dearest friend.

“Neal.” That’s all he said, holding his arms out. He took one step, and another.

Neal held up a hand, as if that would stop him. Peter felt himself grinning, because seeing Neal – young/old – so perfect – was the best moment he had in such a damn long time.

He dropped the hand and Peter took that last step, wrapping his arms around him, holding him as tight as he could. And Neal – this time, there was no hesitation; he grasped Peter as if he were a life preserver. It felt so good; Neal was in his arms, where he belonged.

“When are you coming home? I’ve missed you so much.”

Neal pulled back, the happiness gone from his face. “I can’t come home, not now. Not ever.”

Peter thought his heart was going to break. “Why, why can’t you? If it’s about El, about us, we can work that out. You know that. You’re my friend, before anything else. And I miss my friend. I miss you.”

“No, Peter – it’s not that. When I say I can’t come home, it’s because I _can’t_ – it’s impossible now.”

The ice and snow stung his face. “Are you in prison, Neal? Is that why you can’t come home?” This was his greatest fear. “You should have called me, I would have helped you.”

Neal shook his head, sad and slow. “No, Peter. I’m not in jail.”

The dread turned to terror, to a thought that had never occurred before. “Neal – are you dead?”

  
  
Peter woke up, gasping and tear-stained. _No, no, no. It’s just a nightmare. Neal isn’t dead._ He swallowed against the sharp, metallic taste in his mouth, the residue of fear and bile and tried to reassure himself that this was only a bad dream, a projection of his worries, nothing more. Peter looked at the clock; it was almost two-thirty in the afternoon. Too late to call his contacts at Interpol in Paris.  
  
But first thing tomorrow, the gloves were coming off, so to speak. He was going to find Neal Caffrey. It was what he did best.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
**Mid January**  
  
Neal’s plans for calling or not calling Peter’s office until Christmas day were scuttled. Scar tissue from the multiple surgeries he needed immediately following the accident had created a blockage in his small intestine. He was moved back to the hospital for an emergency procedure, and what was supposed to be a three-day stay lasted more than two weeks. The ever-present risk of post-operative infections materialized, and he spent ten days in an isolation ward, treated for intra-abdominal abscesses.  
  
There were no windows out onto the world, just three walls of glass and a sterile environment, like a cage in a zoo. No one touched him, no one talked to him, except to fulfill some medical directive. They were courteous in a cursory fashion, calling him Herr or Monsieur or Signore as their gloved hands tended to his failing body.  
  
Whatever progress he had made through the late autumn was gone. By the time the infection was defeated and he healed from the surgery, Neal had lost more weight and much of the muscle tone he had worked so hard to build. They shipped him back to the private clinic just after New Year’s, where he started his regime from square one. Somewhere along the way, his cell phone, his one connection to the past, went missing. The staff was apologetic and purchased a replacement for him.  
  
He could reload the telephone numbers, and even the photos with a few taps, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It wasn’t apathy – far from it. It was just that it hurt too much to look at the life he lost, to hear their voices, those recordings.  
  
Neal tried not to think about those few seconds when he heard Peter’s voice He closed his eyes and tried to forget. He couldn’t. Those familiar tones echoed in his head like one of the great church bells, and cracked his soul just as easily.  
  
The phone slipped from his hand, onto the floor. He didn’t even try to reach for it. Maybe housekeeping would find it. He half-hoped they’d keep it.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

   
  
  


  
  
**Mid-February**  
  
The incoming call log was, in a way, terrifying. For nearly a year, someone had been calling his phone between one and two in the morning almost every day. Except when they weren’t. There were periods when no one called at that time – for two or three weeks. Then the calls started again. Until the last call, the one that Peter had answered. There were no more calls after that.  
  
It took about two weeks, but Eleanor from IT came up aces. The phone used to make the calls had a Paris city code attached to the number, but the cell sites where the call originated from were in Montreux, Switzerland. The first thing Peter did was call that number, but it was disconnected. And unless there was another call to his office phone that lasted at least two minutes, they wouldn’t be able to narrow down an exact location.  
  
Peter looked on this as progress, completely and utterly convinced that the calls were from Neal. He also checked the area covered by the cell towers identified in the report. There were several high class hotels, as well as a number of luxury apartment buildings, hospitals and businesses. And Lake Geneva. But no prisons, court houses or jails. That was, at least, a relief.  
  
Another interesting thing, and another point in favor of Neal being the mystery caller, was that the calls lasted only a second or two longer than the voicemail greeting, never long enough to even get to the “start recording now” beep.  
  
Peter was troubled by the periods when there were no calls, and even more troubled that there hadn’t been any calls for the last few weeks. He had even changed his greeting, rambling on for the full two minutes, in hopes that the pen register would be able to pinpoint the caller’s location. But there was nothing.  
  
So he proceeded on a different tactic. If technology wasn’t going to work for him, then he’d have to resort to good old-fashioned police work. Peter called an old contact he had in the Geneva cantonal police force, someone he had met during his original pursuit of Neal. Even though the calls weren’t originating from a prison cell (hopefully), Gerard Macht was a good cop, intelligent, thoughtful and thorough. They hadn’t been in touch for a while; Peter only hoped he remembered him and would be willing to assist.  
  
And he did, responding to Peter’s email with gratifying speed. Peter replied with a simple request – could he check police records for any criminal activity relating to “Neal Caffrey” or any of the aliases on the attached list, in Geneva and Montreux.  
  
Gerard replied that it would take a little time to go through all thirty names, and he didn’t have access to the records in Vaud, but would reach out to a colleague in that canton. Peter thanked him and tried not to be frustrated. A few hours later, he had responses. Neither Neal, nor any of his aliases, was in either police departments’ systems. In truth, Peter was glad Gerard and his colleague came up empty handed; he didn’t want to know that Neal had come to the attention of the police.  
  
Diana and Clinton were highly skeptical of his belief that Neal was responsible for the phantom calls, and for the first time in their long association – their _friendship_ – Peter found he couldn’t talk to them about this. But he could talk to El. She might not be convinced that it was Neal, but she deeply understood his need to believe that it was.  
  
That night, over dinner, she asked him how the search was coming.  
  
“Every time I think I’m making progress, it falls apart in my hands.” Peter sighed.  
  
“It’s like you’re starting from scratch.” She looked at him from over her wine glass. “Like nothing you’ve learned about him is any use.”  
  
“I keep wondering about that, hon. That he’s using what he learned about our methods to keep himself off the radar. But I can’t shake the feeling that something’s terribly wrong.”  
  
“Have you reached out to Moz?”  
  
Peter shook his head. “Moz disappeared right before Neal did. Said he was going back to the islands. I’ve tried to find him, but he’s even more ephemeral than Neal.”  
  
“What about Sally?”  
  
Peter struggled for a minute to remember just who ‘Sally’ was. “The hacker?”  
  
“Yeah. Didn’t they have a thing going?”  
  
Peter had to laugh. “Oh yeah, they certainly did. But don’t think it lasted.”  
  
El was persistent. “Maybe they’ve kept in touch, maybe she can help?”  
  
“The Vulture help the FBI?”  
  
“She did before. Why not now, when it’s personal? It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”  
  
Peter had to agree. That night, before going to bed, he posted a message on one of the less notorious Deepnet accessible bulletin boards.  
  


_A friend of the Little Bear Lost hopes the Vulture can help find him. Little Bear’s friend is in trouble and needs his help._

  
  
He waited, not really expecting an answer, but unwilling to give up.  
  
The message board stayed dark and after a few hours, he started to shut down his computer. It was a card played, he’d check back tomorrow.  
  
Except a cell phone rang. Not his FBI phone, nor his El phone, but the burner that he used only in emergencies. Or when he needed to get in touch with Neal. These days, he kept the phone charged and in easy reach. Elation filled him as he answered the phone. “Neal!”  
  
 _“No, it’s not.”_ The voice was feminine, a little husky and vaguely familiar. _“You said you needed to talk to me.”_  
  
 _Sally._ He wasn’t surprised that she knew this was his burner phone. He tried not to let the intense disappointment bleed into his voice. “Yeah – I’m trying to find our mutual friend. Any chance you could help?”  
  
There was a pause that stretched out for an uncomfortable length of time. The phone connection clicked and for a moment Peter thought the call dropped.  
  
 _“Suit? You’ve become surprisingly resourceful.”_  
  
“Mozzie.” Peter closed his eyes and said a prayer of thanks. “Do … do you know where Neal is?” He hoped that Neal had kept in touch with the little guy – they had been inseparable for years.  
  
He heard the other man sigh. _“No, and before you break out the water boards and rubber hoses, I really don’t. It’s like he’s dropped off the face of the earth. If he wanted to be found, you’d find him.”_  
  
“I don’t know about that – and I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.”  
  
 _“I’m not helping you drag Neal back to a life of unremitting respectability again. You kept him chained for four years, he deserves to be free.”_  
  
“And he deserves to have the help he needs, Moz.”  
  
 _“Only if he wants it, Suit.”_  
  
Peter didn’t get angry or even annoyed at Moz’s hostility. It was as much a part of him as his bald pate and incessant literary quotations. He thought of all the times that Neal dragged Mozzie into something he didn’t want to be a part of. He thought of the times that Mozzie did the same thing to Neal, usually with disastrous consequences. And then there were the times that Moz, of his own volition, helped Peter. Because it was the right thing to do. He decided to share the information he had.  
  
“I think Neal’s in Switzerland.” He gave Moz the broad picture. “I don’t think Neal’s out on a crime spree, Moz. If he’s in trouble, I can’t let it go.”  
  
 _“You mean you can’t let *him* go, Suit.”_  
  
Peter wondered just what Moz was implying. “He’s my friend, and for that reason alone I need to help him.”  
  
 _“Noble words, Suit. But you’ve made a career out of chasing Neal Caffrey, out of catching him and locking him up. If he wants to be found, he’ll find you.”_  
  
He wanted to argue that point with Moz. “But what if he can’t reach out?”  
  
 _“Peter?”_ Sally interrupted them. _“Do you have the number that was used to call your office?”_  
  
He read it out to her. “But it’s a dead number.”  
  
 _“Nothing’s ever quite dead – it just changes state. Hold on.”_  
  
Peter listened to Sally and Moz bicker and he wondered if the two were actually together.  
 _“The last time that cell phone was used, it was at the Clinic de Chillon in Montreux, the last call was made on December 19th at -1 UTC. The phone was registered to an email account george dot devore at icloud dot com.”_  
  
Relief and anxiety warred in him. “Sally, thank you.”  
  
 _“You’re not going to thank me, Suit?”_  
  
Peter sighed. “You haven’t helped – you’ve just thrown up roadblocks.”  
  
There was silence on the other end, and Peter wondered if they hung up on him. Moz finally replied. _“Peter – ”_  
  
He sucked in a breath. When Moz used his given name, it meant something.  
  
 _“If Neal doesn’t want to come back to New York, leave him be. He’s earned his freedom.”_  
  
“All I want to do is make sure he’s okay. Help him if he needs it. He’s my friend.”  
  
 _“And he’s mine, too. Don’t forget that.”_  
  
Sally came back on the line before he could say anything else. _“I’ll be in touch when I find anything.”_ There was a series of clicks and the call abruptly ended.  
  
Peter went to finish shutting down his laptop when an email popped up in his private account. It had no header, but the subject line said “Don’t share with the Little Bear, not just yet.”  
  
The content of the email was a link and against his better instincts, Peter clicked on it. It took him to the English translation of a local Montreux newspaper, specifically the local police activity. The article was over a year old, just before Christmas the year that Neal left. Buried amongst other small notices was a singular piece of news.  
  


  
**COLLISION ON ROAD TO ROCHERS DE NAYE**

_Yesterday evening, an automobile was struck by a truck traveling with its lights off. The driver of the car, identified as Neal Caffrey, an American from New York, was seriously injured and taken by ambulance to the hospital in Montreux. When he was apprehended several kilometers from the crash site, the driver of the truck, Eric Denhoff, a native of Lausanne, claimed that he was not aware that his headlights were not working or that he had struck the other vehicle. The driver is being held on suspicion of operating a vehicle while impaired._  


  
  
Peter stared at the screen, reading the hundred some-odd words over and over again until they finally made sense. Neal was alive. He survived the crash, but in what state?  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Today was a better day, the third such one in a row. For the first time in over a year, he was able to walk more than three steps. Making it from one end of the parallel apparatus to the other – a distance of eight feet – was more than a minor triumph. It was a victory equal to Waterloo or Saratoga. He did it each day, and today he even turned around and walked half-way back before collapsing in a shaking, sweaty heap.  
  
With those steps, Neal started to believe he could have some semblance of a life back, that he’d be able to walk out of here under his own steam, maybe go back to New York, see everyone again. See Peter again. And then he killed that thought dead. There was no going back, and besides, if he began to hope, it would all fall apart.  
  
His cell phone was on the nightstand when they wheeled him back to his room, waiting there like some cursed artifact. One he couldn’t resist anymore. It was Saturday morning in New York.  
  
Peter would be home with Elizabeth, they’d be sitting at the dining room table, having coffee and bagels and talking about their plans for the weekend. Or maybe they were just perusing the Times, Peter working away at the crossword puzzle, El with the Book Review. Satchmo would be sleeping at their feet – or pretending to sleep but secretly waiting for leftovers. Maybe Peter had just a little smear of cream cheese on his cheek, maybe El would look up and smile. Instead of wiping it off, she’d lean over and kiss it clean, licking her lips at the taste.  
  
Neal could see it so clearly. It was as if he were there, a ghost haunting their happiness. He wondered if they missed him. Probably not on weekend mornings when he’d stop by, lonely and bored and looking for a playmate. Or trouble.  
  
Not for the first time, Neal admitted that it had been a mistake to have left New York. Hell, wasn’t that one of his last thoughts before his life changed forever? Had he been man enough, adult enough, he would have been able to deal with his feelings for Peter. He could have found someone else, someone to help sublimate those desires, someone to give him the distance, the strength he needed. Someone who would be little more than a crutch.  
  
Thoughts of Peter, thoughts of his misguided, wrong-headed love invariably lead back to memories of that kiss. Their kiss. The memory was imprinted on his soul. If the light was just right, the air just right, if he caught a whiff of exhaust fumes and jet fuel, he could feel Peter’s lips on his, feel his arms, his hands.  
  
It was so ironic. For years, the stink of jet fuel would bring back memories of Peter’s arms – not holding him gently, but holding him back with all his strength, keeping his from running to that burning plane, keeping him alive.  
  
Now, he couldn’t stop from associating that odor with morning sunlight and the shocking touch of Peter’s mouth on his, his hands cupping his face, threading through his hair, holding him, shackling him, forever keeping him there and letting him go in the same breath.  
  
Neal picked up the phone; he didn’t need to call up the number from a contact list. It was etched too deeply in his memory. Country code 001. Area code 212. Then seven digits to Peter’s direct office line. He wouldn’t be there today.  
  
Today was Saturday.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Peter didn’t book a seat on the next flight to Geneva. He wanted to, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He had too many goddamned responsibilities to just leave like that. It wasn’t like he was going to go on vacation. The week between his discovery and his departure was the longest week in his life.  
  
“You want to take a six-month leave of absence, Peter?” Hughes wasn’t aggravated, just puzzled. “Why?”  
  
“It’s personal.”  
  
“Is it Elizabeth? Is she sick?” Peter was gratified at the intense concern in his boss’ voice.  
  
“No, it’s not Elizabeth.”  
  
Reese looked at him, that keen-eyed stare that always made Peter feel as if he were nine and trying to explain about the broken window. “It’s Caffrey, isn’t it?”  
  
Peter nodded.  
  
Reese shook his head and gave an exasperated sigh. “You can’t just go riding to his rescue, over and over again, Peter. He’s not your concern anymore. If he got caught doing something, he probably did it.”  
  
“It isn’t that. Neal’s …” He couldn’t explain, because he didn’t have all the details. “Here.” He handed Hughes the printout of the article that Sally sent and watched his face as he read it.  
  
There was a shocked, sympathetic look on the man’s face, one mirrored in his next question. “Is he alive?”  
  
“I’m almost positive.” Peter told him about the late night calls into the office, and how he traced them back to Montreux.  
  
“But why?”  
  
“I think Neal’s calling to hear our voices. He never leaves a message, just hangs up right after the recording.” The thought still had the power to hurt.  
  
Hughes said nothing; he just reached for the leave request form that Peter had prepared and signed it with an emphatic gesture. “Go bring him home. He should be here, with his friends and family. We’ll give him the help he needs.”  
  
“Thank you.” Those words were never more heartfelt.  
  
Leaving still wasn’t easy. He wanted Elizabeth with him, not for her wisdom and companionship, but because what he afraid – afraid of what he was going to find, and he needed her – like a security blanket. But El couldn’t come – too many commitments that she couldn’t pass off to Yvonne. Peter suspected that she saw right through him.  
  
“You’ll be fine.”  
  
He grabbed her hand, pulled her into his lap. “You sure you can’t come with me, even for a week?”  
  
She kissed him. “You’ll do fine. You’ll find Neal, you’ll bring him home. You do that better that anyone.” She chuckled. “You’re the only one who can do that.”  
  
Peter nodded. “But what if…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.  
  
“We’ll deal with it.” She hugged him. “Whatever he needs, we’ll deal with it.”  
  
Somehow, everything that needed to get done got done. A ticket to Geneva was booked, lodgings in Montreux, too. Peter contacted Gerard Macht again, who promised to meet his arriving flight.  
  
The eight hour plane ride was bearable, if only because El got him a seat in business class so he wouldn’t be crippled on arrival. Customs was efficient; it was Switzerland after all. But by the time Peter walked into the Arrivals terminal and spotted Gerard, he was exhausted.  
  
Gerard was blunt in his assessment. “You look like crap, my friend. And I’m not talking about the years, because they have otherwise treated you well.”  
  
“ _Danke_ , you son of a bitch.” Peter laughed, and gave Gerard a one-armed hug. Their original association had been brief, but they had forged a lasting bond, the way lawmen do.  
  
“You haven’t changed, Peter Burke. Still chasing after Neal Caffrey? It’s been ten years and you’re still gunning for him?”  
  
Peter gave his friend a sharp look, and realized that he knew nothing about his recent and not-so-recent history with Neal. “You want the whole story?”  
  
“Of course I do, it’s about an hour or so to Montreux. Or we can have dinner here and then head out, whichever you prefer.”  
  
It was a quarter past eight, local time, but Peter’s body clock was screwed up. His flight left from Newark at five in the morning, which meant he hadn’t slept for almost twenty hours (he wasn’t the type to sleep in-flight). He considered Gerard’s offer. “Dinner does sounds good, then Montreux, and then the Clinic de Chillon in the morning.”  
  
Gerard nodded.  
  
It was close to nine by time they parked in front of a small café. Everything was very orderly, very tidy. Even in the middle of winter, there was little snow on the sidewalks and streets. Peter absently wondered if they just dumped it into the lake.  
  
They settled down at a prime table near the fireplace. “One of the perks of a badge, as I’m sure you know.”  
  
Peter shrugged. He never used his to get privileges, but he wasn’t a local cop. Feds were always treated differently. He ordered an espresso, then changed his mind and got a beer instead.  
  
“So, Peter Burke, tell me the story of Neal Caffrey and why you’re still hunting him down.” Gerard relaxed against his seat, beer in hand.  
  
Peter gave a huff of laughter. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”  
  
“I always have. And I’ve admired that craziness.”  
  
“Neal Caffrey is one of my closest friends.” Peter watched Gerard’s face, the dawning confusion, the shock.  
  
“I don’t understand. How does an FBI agent, an officer of the law, become close friends with a criminal?”  
  
Peter took a sip of beer and organized his thoughts. “About nine years ago, I finally caught Neal Caffrey. Set up his girlfriend as a stalking horse – she didn’t know it, though. Neal was besotted by her, and he later confessed that a lot of what he did was because he wanted to get her attention.”  
  
“Really? One of the greatest crime sprees in this century was just to impress a girl?” Gerard’s eyebrows hovered near his receding hairline.  
  
“Apparently. But mind you, Neal never confessed to anything specific.” Peter took another sip and lost himself in the memory of a night spent talking, standing shoulder to shoulder and sharing secrets.  
  
“So? What happened?”  
  
Peter shook himself out of the reverie. “He went to trial – wasn’t interested in cutting a deal. We threw a lot of charges at him, but the only thing what stuck was bond forgery. The case that brought him to my attention.”  
  
“And how did you manage that if Caffrey was so slippery?”  
  
“Caffrey was an arrogant little bastard back then. He actually came up to me one day, just after he cashed in a forged bond, and introduced himself as a concerned citizen. Handed me a lime-green sucker and walked off. It was only because I could place him at the bank, at the scene, that we got the conviction. He slid out of everything else.” Peter could still taste that lollipop, bitter and slightly rancid.  
  
Gerard laughed. “No matter how smart the criminals are, they’ll always trip themselves up. Too vain, I suppose.”  
  
“Maybe.” They paused to order supper.  
  
“And so?” Gerard was riveted.  
  
“Caffrey got four years – the AUSA wanted to throw the book at him. The judge was persuaded to be reasonable.”  
  
“You intervened?”  
  
“Caffrey was young, he wasn’t violent, and I don’t like sour grapes.” All true.  
  
“That still doesn’t explain how you became such close friends.”  
  
“The best part’s yet to come.” More beer, because some of these memories were painful. “Neal broke out of prison with just a few months left on his sentence.”  
  
“That’s … that’s absurd. Didn’t you once say that Caffrey had a genius IQ?”  
  
“Genius or not, Neal’s a human being with a very romantic … heart. Remember the girl – the one he was supposedly committing all those crimes for?”  
  
“Of course, I hope she was pretty.”  
  
“Yeah, Kate was pretty. She was also – ” Peter sorted through all the adjectives he had used over the years to describe her. “A manipulator. I’m not saying she was evil or that she didn’t love Neal, but she knew how to use him, how to play him.” He wasn’t going to go into details here. “The long and the short of it was that after nearly four years of weekly prison visits, three months before the end of his sentence, she tells him goodbye. Neal – being the resourceful romantic – gets himself a guard’s uniform, programs a key card using a tape recorder, and walks out of a maximum security facility. Six hours later, I found him, heartbroken, sitting on the floor of her apartment, clutching an empty wine bottle.”  
  
“You are serious? Caffrey risked going back to prison for a long time because of a girl?”  
  
“Pretty unbelievable, isn’t it? But that’s Neal. More often than not, a fool for love.”  
  
Their food arrived, and between bites, Peter told Gerard about the deal Neal had struck with him, about the Dutchman, how Neal’s quick thinking won them the prize.  
  
Gerard was impressed. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anything like that. You hand Caffrey a law book, he reads it and arranges the arrest of your suspect on a legal loophole? Brilliant!”  
  
Peter gave him a wry smile. “That was Neal. Brilliant. And reckless. And he’d tie you up in such knots you’ll never know if you’re coming or going.”  
  
“But he had his own agenda, of course. He had to – right? The girl? A big score?”  
  
Peter wiped his mouth, finished his beer and just shook his head. “That first year, it was all about Kate. He was convinced that someone was holding her against her will. He once thought I was keeping her hostage.” Going back to those old days made him weary, sick at heart. “But oddly enough, we learned to trust each other. And Neal delivered, big time. My division’s closure rate skyrocketed.”  
  
“And I guess this is how you became friends?”  
  
He nodded. “It wasn’t easy. Neal …” Peter found himself lacking the right words to describe those early days. “It was like he needed me for everything, but he insisted on doing things his way.”  
  
“Sounds like my thirteen year old.”  
  
Peter had to agree, in part. “Neal had been rootless for so long, he was looking for someone, something to hold onto. I don’t think he was looking for a father figure. He needed a friend.”  
  
“I’d have thought that the FBI frowned on their agents becoming friends with their informants?”  
  
“They do. But Neal was more than my CI. I was responsible for him – he was out of prison because I could make that happen.” It wasn’t necessary to tell Gerard that he liked Neal even as far back as the chase.  
  
“Sounds like it was inevitable that you’d become friends.” Gerard signaled for the check and waved Peter off when he went to pay. “My treat. Haven’t been quite so entertained in a while.”  
  
Back in the car, Gerard prompted him for the rest of Neal’s story. “Did he ever find the girl?”  
  
“Yes. And she was murdered before his eyes.” Peter couldn’t go into the whole thing with Mentor and Adler and Fowler. And certainly not the Nazi treasure or what came after that.  
  
“That’s horrible.”  
  
“Neal made it through, though.”  
  
“You admire him.”  
  
“He’s made some poor choices in his life – but he’s learned from his mistakes. I know he’s a criminal – he _was_ a criminal, but that’s not what defines him anymore. Neal’s honorable, loyal, brilliant, everything you’d want in a friend. When his sentence was finished, Neal wanted to travel, see the world again. I wanted him to stay in New York, stay with the Bureau, but I had no choice. I couldn’t keep him chained up; I had to let him go.”  
  
There was no comment from Gerard as he negotiated the highway that ran along Lake Geneva. The minutes passed in silence.  
  
“Truthfully Peter, it sounds like you love him.”  
  
Peter swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. “I do.”  
  
Snowflakes drifted out of the heavy clouds hanging above the lake, shimmering like crystalline fireflies in the headlamps. Gerard flicked on the windshield wipers. “Then I hope he’s all right. I hope so, for both your sakes.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
  


  
  
They had him up early today for neurological tests. There was some numbness in his hands and feet and Neal couldn’t help but feel like all the progress he had made was going to be lost once again.  
  
 _So much for recovery._  
  
After the tests, they wheeled him to his preferred spot in the solarium. It was an isolated corner, but there was a perfect view of the lake. Neal wondered why other patients didn’t claim this spot, and had asked one of the aides. The answer was vague and unsatisfying and Neal didn’t bother to press. He was just pleased that he had someplace to park himself, someplace where no one came and bothered him for a few hours.  
  
His palm itched, or more accurately, it tingled. This was the hand on his uninjured arm, which was what disturbed him enough to mention it to his therapist, hence the neuro exam. Neal made a fist, squeezed it tight until the tingling and coldness dissipated. But only for a few seconds, just long enough to give hope and then steal it away.  
  
The sky was leaden. It had snowed last night, and there was more snow threatening. Not that it mattered; it wasn’t as if he was going to go anywhere. Neal remembered winters in New York. It had been warm for the last two years of his sentence, but the first two – those had been something. It had been a freezing cold, snow falling on the day that Kate died. Of course he had spent the rest of that winter back in prison. The one after that had been spectacularly snowy, but fun. He remembered snowball fights with Peter and the Harvard Crew in Columbus Park, a few blocks off from Federal Plaza. Someone had issued a challenge to the agents in Organized Crime and they met there for a show down.  
  
Neal smiled at the memory. OC seemed to have the upper hand, pelting them from behind an impenetrable fortress. At least until that fortress inexplicably melted. _Moz_ and some tech that probably should have been highly classified gave the White Collar team a sudden advantage, and they buried their opponents. Literally.  
  
Good times.  
  
He wondered what the weather was like in New York, now. Without thinking, he pulled out his cell phone and checked. A few degrees below freezing, there was a fifty-percent chance of accumulating snowfall. Peter would probably glare up at the sky and grumble. Elizabeth would sternly tell him that he was not to even think about shoveling – that’s what neighbors with teenaged boys were for. Peter would sigh and grumble some more and look at Satchmo for support. The dog would probably side with Elizabeth. He was getting up there and didn’t quite have the same love of romping in the snow that he used to.  
  
A swipe of his thumb and he called up his phone book, with all the numbers. A few days ago, he gave in and restored the missing data. Neal hadn’t been able to bring himself to look at the pictures again, but he would. He was weak and lonely and he needed them. Just like he needed to hear Peter’s voice.  
  
Neal dialed, and in this secluded corner, surrounded by glass and potted palm trees, he put the phone on speaker. It rang the customary four times, and Neal smiled and closed his eyes as he heard Peter’s voice.  
  
 _“You’ve reached the voicemail for Peter Burke, Special Agent in Charge of the White Collar Division in the FBI Field Office in New York City. I am on leave until July. Please dial extension 341 for Agent Clinton Jones or extension 346 for Agent Diana Berrigan. They will be able to assist you.”_  
  
The call immediately disconnected. Neal stared at the handset in disbelief. Why would Peter be taking off half a year? Was he sick? Was Elizabeth sick? He licked his lips. He wanted to call Peter, call the house and find out what was going on.  
  
He pressed the entry for “Peter and Elizabeth Burke” but before he could hit “dial” someone reached through the foliage and plucked the phone out of his hand. “What? What the – ” Neal twisted his body around to face the thief. Someone walked around to face him  
  
“You don’t need this if you really want to talk to me.”  
  
It was Peter standing there, tall and grave and so heartbreakingly beautiful.  
  
Neal didn’t know what to do. He was trapped, not only by his failing body, but by his will to leave. He closed his eyes and ducked his head, if he couldn’t run, maybe he could hide. But Peter wouldn’t let him.  
  
He kneeled down in front of him, reached out and touched his face, lifting his chin up so gently. Neal had to look now; he had to see the pity and the disgust in Peter’s eyes.  
  
There were emotions there, strong ones – regret, concern, a touch of fear, but no disgust. “I would have come for you, you have to know that. Didn’t I tell you that I’d come for you, no matter what?”  
  
Neal tried to escape again, but it was another failure. Peter wasn’t going anywhere. “I know – I never forgot. But – ”  
  
There was a thread of anger in Peter’s response. “But nothing, Neal. After all we’ve gone through, everything we meant to each other, what did you think? I’d turn my back on you because you’re not a perfect physical specimen anymore?”  
  
“No.” Neal’s admission was a whisper. “I thought you’d pity me, you’d come to resent me, that you’d hate what I’ve become.” He banged his hands on the arms of his chair. “I know I do. I’m pathetic and weak and disgusting.”  
  
“No, Neal – you’re not.” Peter carefully lifted his clenched fists, his very gentleness forced Neal to uncurl his fingers, and brought the left one – damaged and wasted – up to his lips and kissed it. He kissed the right one, and the heat of Peter’s mouth seared through the numbness, in his fingers, in his soul.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
When he woke this morning, Peter had such a terrible, disjointed feeling, like the world was about to end. It wasn’t the same feeling of worry in his gut that had been dogging him for over a year; it was a helplessness to change the tragedy that already happened. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling. He felt that way after the police took Neal into custody when Kate’s plane exploded. He felt that way after that scrap of canvas floated to his feet. It was the same feeling he had rushing home to find Elizabeth gone, taken by Keller and his thug. And the morning after all hell broke loose at Neal’s commutation hearing.  
  
Gerard had dropped him off at his hotel, which was thankfully just a short walk to the clinic where Neal might be. Where he was.  
  
One of the last things Peter did before leaving New York was to reach out to Sally again. His request was simple: could she please verify that Neal Caffrey was still a patient at the Clinic de Chillon? The answer came back within the hour, and yes, Neal was currently a patient there. Nothing else, no details about his condition, his prognosis, how long he’d been there. Peter didn’t ask because he didn’t want to know, he didn’t think he could bear the agony of traveling with that knowledge. Now he wondered if ignorance was truly bliss.  
  
He had coffee, and it may have well have been mud for all that he could taste anything. He didn’t eat, too nervous, too worried for that. At eight-thirty, a civilized hour for the Swiss, he walked over to the clinic, prepared for everything and for nothing. The lobby reminded him strongly of the hotel he just left, Art Nouveau elegance with gleaming modern touches. The young woman at the reception desk could have been the clone of the one back at the hotel, with her smooth, upswept blonde hair, her simple pearl earrings and perfectly applied makeup. She smiled as Peter approached.  
  
“Welcome to the Clinic de Chillon, how may I assist you?”  
  
Peter wondered how she knew to speak English, and then discarded the thought as irrelevant. “I’m looking for a patient here, Mr. Neal Caffrey.”  
  
“Certainly, let me check.” She tapped her keyboard, looked up at him, still smiling. “Yes, Mr. Caffrey’s a guest here. Let’s see where he is right now.” A few more taps on the keyboard, some owlish peering at the monitor, and yet another radiant smile. “He’s in the solarium, far right corner facing the lake, behind some potted palms.”  
  
The level of detail surprised him. “You are that certain?”  
  
“Oh, yes – all of our patients are outfitted with GPS trackers in their wheelchairs. It makes it so much easier for the staff to locate them.”  
  
It was all Peter could do not to burst into laughter. She pointed him towards the solarium, and the last steps of his journey began.  
  
It felt like lead blocks were chained to his ankles, and his heart was pounding like he’d just run the marathon. It wasn’t like this back on Cape Verde, or even in his dreams. Peter recognized it as reluctance, as fear. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before crossing the solarium. There were a few patients in the cavernous glass-walled room, and some looked up as he passed by, hope in their eyes that the visitor was for them. Peter gave each a distracted smile as he made his way towards the far right corner, where Neal supposedly was.  
  
He recognized the top of Neal’s head first, despite the threads of silver, and then he heard his own voice, the message he left on his office phone, that he’d be out until July.  
  
It was easy enough to reach through the leaves and pull the cell phone out of Neal’s hand; it was achingly difficult to walk around the palm trees and face him.  
  
Sleep had been even more elusive since Peter had learned of Neal’s accident. Nightmares haunted him, a dreamscape where Neal was terribly disfigured. Maybe that was the reason why he wouldn’t let his friends – the people who thought of him as family – know what happened. It wouldn’t matter to him what Neal looked like, but he was still afraid – afraid of the damage and the loss.  
  
Looking down at Neal, seeing him for the first time in more than a year, Peter was honestly relieved. It was clear from the scars on his forehead, his cheek, his chin and one across the bridge of his nose, that Neal didn’t escape from the accident unscathed. But he was still _Neal._  
  
All the words he first wanted to say to him, all the words he had rehearsed, were forgotten when he took the phone out of his hand. Those were easy words, joking and lighthearted. After all, this was the first time he’d seen Neal in a year, their longest separation since he walked out of Sing Sing wearing a pair of dress pants, a peacoat, and a tracking anklet. But his next words weren’t so lighthearted.  
  
“I would have come for you, you have to know that. Didn’t I tell you that I’d come for you, no matter what?”  
  
Neal’s reaction broke his heart. He tried to hide – to close in on himself, to run away without going anywhere. Peter wanted to lift him out of that wheelchair, to hold him in his arms, to give him all of the strength and security he could. Instead, he took his friend’s hands gently in his, uncurling the fists, holding them until they warmed. Neal’s hands were so painfully thin, the left hand almost wasted. Without thinking, he lifted it to his mouth, pressing a kiss into the palm, repeating the gesture to the other hand.  
  
“Neal, I love you. I never should have let you leave without telling you that.” Those were the words he had rehearsed – words he was going to say whether Neal was mobile and flirting with the nurses, or bound to a bed, on a ventilator.  
  
Neal didn’t reply. He wouldn’t even meet his eyes.  
  
Peter’s heart sank – maybe he had been wrong all this time. Maybe Neal wasn’t interested in him this way, maybe the love he thought he saw was only a reflection of his own hopes and feelings and desires. He carefully let go of Neal’s hands. But he wasn’t going to walk away, he wasn’t going to apologize.  
  
He cleared his throat. “But I understand if you don’t feel the same way about me. You’re still my closest friend, and after El, the person who will always matter the most to me.”  
  
Neal started to laugh, a harsh and painful and heartbreaking sound.  
  
Peter didn’t know how to comfort Neal; it took all his willpower not to give into the need to take him in his arms. Instead, he tried to hold him but he was afraid that he’d hurt him, he’d cause further damage. To his amazement, Neal reached out for him, wrapping himself around Peter – it reminding him of another hug, another reunion. He was shocked at how light and insubstantial Neal was, how much his body had diminished.  
  
The hold was awkward, but he let Neal cling to him as long as he needed to. Neal shook with hysterical laughter, and Peter tried to soothe him. “Shh, shh, it’s all right. I’ve got you, I’m here.”  
  
Neal calmed down but began to struggle against his hold. At that moment, Peter felt the hard braces against his own legs and he needed to know the full extent of Neal’s injuries. He needed to know what he had to do to help, to get Neal home, to ensure his recovery.  
  
Peter let go and sat down next to Neal, trapping him the best he could. “Neal? What’s going on inside that head of yours? What are you thinking?”  
  
“Everything’s changed. Whatever could have been … Those dreams are gone. You have to see that.”  
  
Peter thought he understood. “You’re saying that because of what happened, the accident?”  
  
Neal nodded, pursing his lips.  
  
“And what if I said that none of this matters? What if I said that I will love you forever?”  
  
“How can you? Not even considering Elizabeth – and how could you even think of betraying her?”  
  
Peter cut Neal off. “Elizabeth’s always known how I’ve felt about you. She thought I was a fool for letting you go. She wanted to tell you just what you were leaving behind. I wouldn’t let her. I didn’t want you to feel trapped or obligated.”  
  
Neal blinked and looked away. “That’s irrelevant now.”  
  
“Why? Because you’re not perfect anymore?” Peter saw the muscles in Neal’s jaw tighten. “Talk to me.”  
  
Neal looked up, perhaps trying to find answers in the cloudy winter sky. “I’m practically a cripple. I can barely walk. I can’t take care of myself. The least little thing sends me back into intensive care. Do you know what milestone I celebrated yesterday?”  
  
There was so much derision and self-loathing in Neal’s voice that Peter wanted to beg him to stop, but he didn’t. He swallowed the pain in his soul, he swallowed the tears that threatened. “Tell me.”  
  
“I walked ten steps. I moved three yards under my own power. That’s the farthest distance I’ve traveled while vertical since the accident. And that progress may be completely illusory. My hands and feet keep going numb. The doctors are worried about compression in my cervical spine. Another operation, another chance to die.”  
  
Peter thought about how to answer Neal. He understood the fatalism, but he didn’t agree with it. “And does that mean that I shouldn’t love you? That you’re any less worthy of being loved? What if I had cancer? What if El did? Would we be any less worthy of your love?”  
  
“No, but that’s different.”  
  
“No, Neal. That’s bullshit.” Neal refused to look at him, but Peter wasn’t going to accept that. He reached out and turned Neal’s head back to face him. “I can understand what you’re feeling. You feel helpless, you don’t want to be a burden.” Neal’s eyes widened. “Yeah – you think you’re the only one who’s gone through this?”  
  
“You?”  
  
“Yeah, I had a friend. He – ” Peter grimaced at the memory. “He had colon cancer. The day his doctors told him he’d live but he’d have to use an ostomy bag for the rest of his life, he went into his garage, turned on the car and killed himself. He didn’t even give his family a chance. He didn’t want to be a burden.”  
  
“I’m sorry.” The apology was faint, but genuine.  
  
Peter took Neal’s hands again, he needed the physical contact. “I love you, Neal. You are a part of – well – my soul.” Peter laughed. “Sappy, I know, but it’s the damn truth. Nothing has been the same this past year. I keep looking for you and you’re not there. I have had nightmares about what happened to you. My gut kept telling me that something was wrong.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Neal whispered.  
  
This time, Peter waved it off. “Let’s stop apologizing to each other. We need to move forward, Neal. Not back. Can we?”  
  
Neal squeezed his hands, but whatever he was about to say was cut off. An aide found them and cheerfully announced that it was time for M. Caffrey’s morning session with the physical therapist.  
  
Peter wasn’t sure if he should follow, where he should wait, but Neal didn’t let go. Not just yet. “Come, watch. You want to see what you’re in for? I hope you have a strong stomach, because it’s going to get ugly.”  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Neal refused to let himself be distracted by Peter’s presence, but frankly it was impossible to put it out of his mind. Peter was here. Peter found him. He wanted him, he loved him. It was like his best and worst fantasies had come true.  
  
“Herr Neal – are you ready?” They had warmed him up with electric stimulation and heat packs, and Peter sat next to him, but they didn’t talk. He didn’t know what to say just yet and Peter seemed content to be by his side. They removed his heat packs and took him over to the parallel bars – his _bête noir_. Peter remained behind, watching intently.  
  
Dolph, the latest in the ever-changing cycle of physical therapists, stood there, mild impatience on his face. Neal nodded and let himself be lifted up and out of the chair. He stood between the two parallel bars as the aides locked his leg braces. His left arm was weak and the palm of his right hand was numb, but he gripped the bars and moved his right leg forward, then his left. He was drenched with sweat from the exertion by the time he took the second step and his arms were shaking by the fourth step. But he wasn’t going to give up, he wasn’t going to look at Peter, he was going to make it to the end of the damn set of bars, turn around and walk back to his chair if it killed him.  
  
Another step and another and he reached the end. Over the pounding of his heart, he thought he heard Peter say, “That’s it, that’s it. Come on, you can do it.” For the first time, he turned himself around without assistance and started the walk back. Hand forward, opposite leg forward, repeat. Over and over again until he was facing his wheelchair and without thinking, he turned around again and gratefully collapsed into it. The aides rushed to unlock his braces and ease his legs down.  
  
Neal allowed himself to sneak a glance at Peter. Their eyes met but Peter’s expression was unreadable. What was he thinking? Was he disgusted?  
  
It was time for strengthening exercises, where they worked him over. He pulled and pushed and lifted as many times as he could. The weights were laughable – five pounds at the heaviest, and that made him sweat and pant. Ever conscious of the eyes on him, Neal pushed himself to do more reps than he normally would.  
  
Dolph put a gentle hand on his arm and halted the next set of movements. “No need to damage yourself by showing off. Your friend is very impressed already.” His therapist helped him sit up. “Let’s get you cooled down.”  
  
Neal was embarrassed as the man scooped him up and carried him over to the massage table. That was nothing new, but he hated how helpless it made him look. The masseur eased him out of his sweat-soaked clothing, draping a towel across his hips to preserve his modesty, as wasted and shriveled as it was. Neal turned his head to face Peter and then did something that was sure to bring this happy reunion to a swift ending. “Come here, Peter. Come take a look at me.”  
  
Peter crossed the short distance, and never breaking eye contact with him, asked the masseur for a few minutes of privacy. When Neal let himself look at his torso, he felt like Frankenstein’s monster, put together with parts of other bodies, stuffed into a skin and sewn up. He was revolted by his own body. “It’s disgusting, isn’t it?” The question was a challenge.  
  
“No, it isn’t.” Peter traced the scars, the ones that were still an angry red, the ones that had faded a bit. “You’re alive and these marks are a testimony to your survival. It hurts me that you were hurt so badly, that you could have died and I’d have never known. It hurts that you’re struggling for every step. But understand this – they don’t, you don’t disgust me.” Peter bent over and kissed the scar that crossed his torso, bisecting his navel, leaning his cheek against his ruined flesh.  
  
Neal felt the wetness of Peter’s tears – an echo of the ones on his cheeks. He put his hand on Peter’s head, holding him there so lightly. This kiss was a benediction, a touch of salvation that he never thought he’d receive. Peter stood up, stood over him, looming like some terrible, wonderful angel, his gaze terrifying in its intensity. He smiled and suddenly was human again. The knot under Neal’s heart eased, and the fear he’d been carrying since he first woke after the accident took flight.  
  
“You’re going to come home, Neal. You’re going to come back to us. Understand?”  
  
Peter stepped away and summoned the masseur. The man worked over the stiffening muscles until Neal almost fell asleep. They dressed him and took him back to his room, Peter walking at his side.  
  
Settled into the recliner in front of the window, Neal fought against exhaustion. He was afraid if he closed his eyes, he’d wake and discover that this was all a dream. But sleep was inexorable. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”  
  
Peter brushed his fingers down his cheek. “You think after all this that I’m going to let you out of my sight, Caffrey?”  
  
Neal had to laugh at the fond exasperation. “Okay – and when I wake up, I want you to tell me exactly how you found me.”  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Peter watched Neal for a while, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his eyelids fluttered and relaxed, how his lips pursed and eased. Neal had a mobile face and even in repose that hadn’t changed.  
  
He stepped out of the room and called Elizabeth. Talking to her, hearing her voice made everything real.  
  
“He’s still Neal.”  
  
 _“But?”_  
  
“It’s bad, El. It’s going to be a hard road back.”  
  
 _“Worse than what you expected?”_  
  
Peter thought for a moment. “No. Actually it’s not as bad as I expected. But he can’t walk without assistance. He’s so frail that the least thing, the most minor illness could send him back to the hospital. I don’t know what to do.”  
  
 _“What do you mean?”_  
  
“Do I stay here with him? Do I make arrangements to take him back to New York? I don’t know what’s best for Neal.”  
  
 _“Well, isn’t it Neal’s choice?”_  
  
She was right, of course. But still…  
  
 _You have to respect his wishes, Peter. But you can offer him the choice, and we’ll do whatever we need to help him recover._  
  
They talked some more, and he promised to call her again later, but before they disconnected, he had to ask, “Any chance you could come to Montreux, El?” Peter knew he was begging.  
  
 _“Oh, hon – as you’re so fond of saying, ‘cowboy up’. You’re doing fine, you don’t need me.”_  
  
“Hon, I’ll always need you.”  
  
Peter smiled at El’s snort of laughter. _“Okay, now that that’s settled, let me go back to sleep.”_  
  
Peter took a quick look at his watch and winced. It was a little before noon here. Which meant it was close to six AM in New York. El hung up before he could apologize.  
  
Back in Neal’s room, he was a little too antsy to just sit and watch Neal. He rooted around the desk drawers and found a pen and some stationary. He wasn’t interested in writing a letter; he needed to make lists of what had to be done to get Neal home, to get him well.  
  
He didn’t get too far on the list – there were just too many unknowns. He suspected that a private clinic like this would be extremely expensive in New York, which set him to wondering just how Neal did afford this place. Even if there was insurance from the driver, even if Neal had his own insurance, he doubted it was enough to pay for the long term residential care here. Peter shook his head, dismissing the question. The state of Neal’s finances didn’t matter. Getting him well did.  
  
Once Neal was mobile enough, healthy enough, he was going to need a place to live. As much as he wanted it, it would be nearly impossible to keep Neal at the house. There was no first floor bathroom and he couldn’t expect that Neal would be able to climb all of those stairs. A few years ago, El had broken her ankle and spent six weeks cursing each and every step.  
  
Peter figured that June could easily be persuaded to give Neal back his old apartment. After Moz was shot, June showed them the small elevator that went up to the top floor. He was certain that June wouldn’t mind having Neal back, and wouldn’t have a problem with the home health care assistance that Neal would need.  
  
But again, plans couldn’t be made until he knew what Neal wanted to do. He sighed.  
  
“That seems way too heartfelt. What’s the matter?” Neal was awake and smiling.  
  
“Nothing – just trying to figure out a few things.” Peter folded the paper and shoved it in his pocket.  
  
“I can’t believe you’re really here.” There was a softness in Neal’s voice, a wonderment – like it was Christmas morning and he’d been given a much longed-for gift. “I thought it was a dream.”  
  
“You sure you don’t mean a nightmare?”  
  
Neal shook his head. “Never that, not even when you arrested me the first time. And I still want to know how you found me.”  
  
Peter had to smile. “I’m Special Agent Peter Burke, it’s my life’s mission to find Neal Caffrey.”  
  
Neal’s laugh was joyous. “Of course it is. Now – come on; dazzle me with your deductive skills.”  
  
“Well, you weren’t exactly hiding.”  
  
“True, but stop stalling.”  
  
He had to smile at Neal’s petulant tone. “You kept your promise.”  
  
“What – what do you mean?”  
  
“You said you were done with the life, and you were happy being Neal Caffrey. You traveled under that name – you used your legitimate passport.”  
  
Neal still looked puzzled.  
  
“When I searched for you, the only hit on your passport was your exit from New York and your entry into France. There are no border checks – you never left Europe.”  
  
Neal arched a brow in disbelief. “And you can’t tell me that you didn’t check all my other aliases.”  
  
“Of course I did – the ones I’ve known about, the ones we haven’t burned. But I never believed that you used them, or you had new identities made. You said you weren’t interested in returning to the life – you were done with that and I believed you.”  
  
“But you still checked.” Neal was, if nothing else, persistent.  
  
“I’m not stupid – I wanted to find you.”  
  
“Okay, okay – so you were convinced I was still in Europe. How did you connect that to a rehabilitation clinic in a small city in Switzerland? Even for you, that’s a bit of a leap.”  
  
“Last December 18th, at 2:37 AM, Eastern Standard Time.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“A telephone call to my office line. I was there and picked up my phone. There was someone on the other end, but he hung up immediately.” It was interesting to see the light dawn on Neal’s face.  
  
He shook his head in bemused amazement. “You knew it was me? From just a single late night phone call that you happened to be there to take?”  
  
“It wasn’t a single phone call. I’ve been working on a case that’s needed a lot of late nights in the office. You were calling my phone, Diana’s, Clinton’s, regularly, but you weren’t leaving messages. We all figured it was some robo-telemarketer. This was just the first time that I didn’t let the call ring through.” Peter grimaced. “It was just random luck. The minute I realized that there was a human on the other end of the line, that it wasn’t a computer generated call, I knew it had to be you.”  
  
“The famous Peter Burke gut detector?”  
  
He shrugged. “Maybe – when it comes to Neal Caffrey, I’ve learned to trust it implicitly.”  
  
“You couldn’t have traced the call. I wasn’t on the phone long enough.”  
  
“Ah, but you’re forgetting that you’ve been calling the FBI offices. We keep logs of all incoming calls. They were able to trace the call to a pair of cell towers in Montreux, Switzerland. And burner phone or not, there’s still a number attached to the handset you used. I tried calling, but it was disconnected. And you never called again. What happened?” Peter had a feeling he wasn’t going to like the answer. And he didn’t.  
  
Neal was grim. “My phone was misplaced or stolen when I had to go back to the hospital for emergency surgery. There was an intestinal blockage from the scar tissue.” Neal placed a hand over his abdomen. “Of course, I developed an infection.”  
  
Now Peter understood Neal’s fatalism. “How bad was it?”  
  
“I was in ICU and then isolation for almost two weeks. It wasn’t the first time that happened.” Neal’s tone was leaden.  
  
“Last April?”  
  
“Surgery on my knee, and another infection.”  
  
“August?”  
  
Neal compressed his lips. “Bladder infection. And before you ask, there were operations on my shoulder and wrist that sent me back to the hospital in October.”  
  
Peter sighed, he couldn’t help it. “You’re a mess.”  
  
Neal’s response was gratifying. He laughed. “Yeah, I am. And this latest problem – the herniated discs in my neck – may mean another operation.”  
  
Peter didn’t know what to say.  
  
Neal, though, wasn’t letting go so quickly. “So – you still haven’t explained how you got from a general location in Montreux to finding me.”  
  
“Remember Sally? El suggested I contact her.”  
  
Neal grinned, from ear to ear. “You dog – you went to The Vulture. What did you have to do to persuade her to help you?”  
  
“Nothing – it was surprisingly easy. I posted to the Deepnet, noting that Little Bear’s friend might be in trouble.”  
  
“Little Bear – you mean Mozzie, right?” Neal chuckled at Peter’s nickname for his friend.  
  
“Yup. Sally got in touch almost immediately, and she got a hold of Moz.”  
  
“Are they together?”  
  
“Don’t think so – not physically, at least.” He gave Neal a level stare. “If you wouldn’t reach out to me, why wouldn’t you at least contact Mozzie? He’s your oldest friend.”  
  
“Moz isn’t good with situations like this.” Neal replied with a twist of his lips.  
  
Peter didn’t believe that, but Neal did – and it was irrelevant now anyway. “Sally traced the number from the cell phone. It was defunct, but there was an email account attached to it. George Devore’s, I believe.”  
  
That earned another laugh. “So Sally traced the phone and probably was able to trace the location too.”  
  
“She also found a newspaper article about the accident. You were named as the victim. She was able to confirm you were still a patient here.”  
  
“And that, as they say, was that. Nice bit of detective work, Agent Burke. This makes you, what, four and ought?” There was a touch of awe in Neal’s voice.  
  
“At the very least.” Peter wasn’t going to tell him about the year filled with sleepless nights, with longing, with worry. Neal had enough to deal with.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
It still amazed Neal that Peter was here, that he found him. Like he had pointed out, he hadn’t been hiding, but it wasn’t as if he was out in the world, either. And yet it seemed so right that Peter had located him. It was, Neal guessed, inevitable. “Calling your office phone was pretty pathetic, I guess.”  
  
The look Peter gave him set the butterflies loose in his stomach.  
  
“Not pathetic, Neal. Just …” Peter frowned, pursing his lips, as if he was searching for the right word. “Unnecessary. Sad. I know that you didn’t want to be a burden – but you should have given us a chance.”  
  
Neal dropped his head. He was ashamed at the hurt he caused Peter – it wasn’t hard to see what this had done to him. But he still didn’t think he had the right to do anything differently. “Is everything all right with Elizabeth?”  
  
Peter looked at him, puzzled. “Yes, of course – other than she’s been worried about you, too.”  
  
“Oh.” Neal licked his lips, he had to ask – even though he thought he knew the answer. “Then why the six-month leave of absence?”  
  
Peter leaned over, cupped his cheek, resting a thumb against his lips. “Because you need me. Because I had no idea what I’d find here, and because I’m not going home without you. Because I love you.” Peter kissed him again – not a blessing this time but a statement of intent.  
  
Neal moaned and he couldn’t help but lean into that kiss. He tasted Peter, tasted the lips he had dreamed of. This kiss did more than rekindle the memory of the one Peter gave him at their parting, the one that haunted him, that kept him alive through the dark hours. This kiss revived _him_ , brought life back into parts of his soul that he had thought dead.  
  
This time, it was Peter who pulled away, and Neal could see the apology in his eyes. “No – don’t. It was – it is – perfect.” And he finally had to confess, in and unaccustomedly shy and halting voice, “I love you, too.”  
  
Peter kissed him again, and in a dizzying moment, scooped him up and out of his chair, only to resettle him on his lap. “Are you okay?”  
  
Neal laughed and then sighed. Then laughed again, for the sheer joy of it. “I can’t remember being better.” Yes, his body was still wasted and useless. His arm, his legs hurt no less than they did this morning, when he woke up and expected this to be just another day in a long series of days with no end in sight.  
  
But now he felt _alive_ , he felt vital. He had a future.  
  
They had a future.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
  


  
  
**Mid-March**  
  
The road back wasn’t easy; Peter didn’t think it would be.  
  
First were the meetings with Neal’s doctors. And before that, figuring out how to explain his relationship to Neal. There were definitely legal hurdles to jump before they would disclose anything to Peter but neither of them could understand why Neal’s verbal consent wasn’t going to be enough. The professionals were obdurate and refused to discuss Neal’s health with him. They finally cut through the red tape and Neal gave Peter the right to made medical decisions for him.  
  
The doctors were still suspicious, but they reluctantly complied. For a whole week, as Neal worked harder with his therapists than he had for nearly a year, Peter met with surgeons and neurologists and specialists of all kinds. He became numb to the horror that had been Neal’s life for so many months.  
  
It was the orthopedic surgeon who convinced Peter that taking Neal back to New York might result in a setback or even permanent disability.  
  
“New York is his home. He has friends and people he considers family,” Peter argued.  
  
“And that’s precisely why he should stay here.”  
  
That baffled him.  
  
The doctor, a woman about Peter’s age, gave him a compassionate smile. “Neal’s progress has been slow, he’s had setback after setback, but he’s making tremendous progress now. If he goes home, back to a familiar environment, he’ll be tempted to overdo, to take risks he wouldn’t here. He’s still at the stage where a bad fall could cripple him for life.”  
  
Peter understood the logic, he didn’t like it, but he understood. “What can I do?”  
  
“What are you willing to do?”  
  
There was nothing to consider. “Anything and everything.”  
  
She gave him another warm and compassionate smile. “I have wondered about Mr. Caffrey – he’s always seemed to be the type of man who should be surrounded by people, and it surprised me that he had no one.”  
  
They talked about treatments, about how Peter could be integrated into Neal’s regime. She cleared the path for him, and a few calls to the professionals at the clinic gave him entrée into what Neal needed on a day-to-day basis.  
  
Peter checked out of his hotel and found a small efficiency apartment near the clinic. It was plain, unadorned, with room for little more than a bed and a single burner cook top. It reminded him a little too much of his first dorm room at Harvard, but without the pot-smoking roommate.  
  
The physical work over the next few months was harder than Peter had to do since his training at Quantico. There were days of frustration, when Neal cursed and spat and refused to move because of the pain. Those days were the worst. At first, Peter wanted to let Neal do what he wanted, to stay in his chair and ease through the pain. But he learned that giving in was the worst thing for Neal. Routines and regimes could be modified, but every day lost was a setback.  
  
It wasn’t the first time that they’d come to a stumbling block, but it was the first time that they couldn’t work through it. For the past three days, Neal absolutely refused to get up and he treated Peter and his therapist like they were the enemy.  
  
“Come on, get up. You can do it.” Peter was trying to be encouraging, but Neal wasn’t having any of it.  
  
“I told you, I’m too tired. I’m in too much pain.”  
  
“That’s because you overdid it. Dolph told you to stop, but you didn’t listen,” Peter couldn’t help but point out. But this was old news.  
  
“And today, I’m going to take it easy and recover.”  
  
“Like you did yesterday and the day before.” Peter looked over at Neal’s therapist, who shook his head. “You still have to walk today. You can forego the strength training, but you have to get up and walk.” Peter didn’t like the idea of giving Neal a pass on that part of his therapy. The herniated discs might not need surgery if Neal kept to a strict exercise regimen.  
  
“No.” Neal released the breaks and rolled out of the therapy room. Or tried to. Peter blocked him, and it was a battle of wills – or more precisely, a battle of upper-body conditioning – and it was surprisingly difficult to turn the chair around.  
  
“Damn it, Neal – this isn’t like you. You know that you have to walk every day, you have to keep your muscles stretched. What are you going to do tomorrow, when everything hurts just that much more? Sit back and whine about the pain? And the day after that? Don’t you want to get better?”  
  
“Fuck you – no one asked you to come. No one asked you.” Neal hissed at him, vicious and angry. There was actually hate in his eyes.  
  
He backed off, hands in the air. “Okay – you don’t want to walk – you don’t have to. You’re a grown man and you can make decisions for yourself.” Peter picked up his jacket and left the therapy room. He stood just outside, hands in his pockets, heartsick. It was inevitable that they’d butt heads; that he’d push and Neal would push back, but the venom in Neal’s voice still hurt.  
  
Peter started walking back to his tiny apartment, the voice of reason dogging his footsteps. _Well, maybe if you didn’t behave like a fucking drill sergeant, he wouldn’t react like that._ He should have known better – Neal never was one to take lectures well. Tell him to do one thing and he was just as likely to do the opposite.  
  
His cell phone buzzed with an incoming call, it was El. His saving grace.  
  
“Hey there, hon. How did you know I needed to talk to you?”  
  
 _“Hmm, my magical sixth sense?”_ He could hear the amusement in her voice. _“What’s the matter?”_  
  
Peter told her about the debacle this morning and the days that had preceded the blowup. “It was my fault – I was too heavy handed. I talked to him like he was a ten year old.”  
  
 _“No, Peter – you didn’t. You were honest.”_  
  
“I was mean.”  
  
 _“You were undiplomatic, at the very worst.”_  
  
Peter stopped and looked up at the mid-morning sky. It was starting to rain – perfect. “I should go back and apologize.”  
  
 _“Actually, you should come home and take care of Satchmo.”_  
  
Peter stopped again, thankfully under an awning. “What?”  
  
 _“I’d prefer not to leave Satch at the kennel for the whole week.”_  
  
“Hon, I’m not following.”  
  
 _“I’ll be arriving in Geneva tomorrow night. I’ve just emailed my flight information. I think you need a break, hon. You’ve been with Neal night and day for almost two months. You both need a break._  
  
Peter didn’t like the idea. “I don’t know. It feels like I’m abandoning Neal at the first sign of difficulty. He needs me.”  
  
 _”Of course he does, but he needs to understand that you’re not his servant either. There’s nothing wrong with a few days’ break._  
  
Peter fought against the idea. “I can’t do this to him. He needs me.”  
  
 _“Peter, you sound like you’re becoming co-dependent. Not good.”_  
  
That gave him pause. He looked out onto the street. The rain had stopped – mostly. “Maybe you’re right.”  
  
 _“Hon, have I ever been wrong when it came to you and Neal?”_  
  
“No, of course not.” Peter dodged the raindrops best he could. “But I just don’t …”  
  
 _“You don’t like the idea of being separated again.”_ She completed his thought. _”He’s not going to disappear, and you’re forgetting, I’ll be there with him. Gonna whip that boy’s ass in shape if it kills both of us._  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
“That wasn’t very nice of you.” Dolph didn’t look at him, concentrating on resetting the therapy room for the next patient. “Your friend rearranges his life to help you and you treat him worse than a stray dog.”  
  
Neal was ashamed, and not just because his physical therapist took pains to point out his bad manners. He didn’t reply, though.  
  
“He wants you to get better. Not for his sake.”  
  
Neal whispered, “I know.”  
  
“Then why treat him like that?”  
  
It was complicated and not something he wanted to tell a relative stranger. When an aide came to escort back to his room, it was weird to be alone. Peter had been with him, caring for him, and a tide of shame washed over him again. He’d been here, working with him every day, all day long, for over two months. Waiting on him hand and foot.  
  
Neal pulled out his phone as soon as he got back to his room and called Peter, holding his breath until he answered.  
  
“Peter?”  
  
 _“Hey, Neal”_  
  
He closed his eyes in relief. Peter didn’t sound angry or disappointed. “I’m sorry for being such a fucking ungrateful bastard these last few days.”  
  
 _“It’s understandable – and I’ve been pushing at you. My fault, too.”_  
  
“Apologies all the way around? Not an unfamiliar situation, right?”  
  
 _“Yeah – we’ve been here, done this a few times.”_  
  
Neal felt himself smiling. “Listen – I’ve talked with Dolph, and there’s a slot open in the therapy room this afternoon. I thought I’d get back on my feet. You’re right – I’m backsliding.”  
  
 _“That’s a great idea – but, well – I can’t make it._  
  
Neal’s heart plummeted. “What’s the matter?”  
  
 _“I – I have to go back to New York for a week. There’s some stuff going on that I have to deal with in person.”_  
  
“Of course – I understand.” Neal swallowed and asked, “Anything I can do?” What a stupid question was that?  
  
 _“No – it’s just stuff. I’ve already got my return ticket – I’ll be back here on Saturday. And we’ll talk – every day, right?”_ Peter sounded as upset as he felt.  
  
“Maybe we could try to Skype?” Neal hoped he didn’t sound too bereft.  
  
 _“Yeah, we could do that.”_  
  
There was something that Peter wasn’t telling him. Neal wasn’t sure it was about him, or if there was something bad going on at home, or if he really did need to go into the office and deal with stuff. Regardless, Peter was leaving him and even if it was just for a little while, Neal felt panicked, abandoned. But the voice of reason was there, too. If Peter promised to be back, he’d be back. He didn’t break his promises. Ever.  
  
Neal was proud of himself, that he could tell Peter to have a good trip without his voice breaking. “Don’t forget to call me when you get home?”  
  
 _“Of course I will._ There was a pause, fraught and pregnant with meaning. _“I love you – no matter what. Don’t forget.”_  
  
“As if I could. And I love you, too, Peter.”  
  
The call ended and Neal was left to stare out the window. It was a typical gray day in March, rainy and cold and depressing. It probably was not much better in New York City. He wished he was going on that plane with Peter, returning home with Peter, starting his life over.  
  
With Peter.  
  
It seemed like another life – another person who was making those desperate calls to hear a familiar voice. Someone lonely and hopeless; someone who wanted to be forgotten but afraid that no one would remember him.  
  
That person was gone, healed in so many impossible ways. But the healing wasn’t complete. It would be a long time still before he could walk, before he could live on his own, before he could …  
  
Before he could fuck.  
  
Early after the accident, when he was numb below the waist and the doctors insisted that it was temporary, Neal prayed. He prayed to a god he wasn’t sure existed that if only he could walk again, he’d be satisfied. He wouldn’t ask for anything more than that.  
  
But that turned out to be a lie, because now he wasn’t satisfied. He could walk – he needed help, he needed braces to keep his legs straight, but he could walk, he could get in and out of bed on his own. He could even stand up and pee – a triumph that he thought impossible even three months ago.  
  
But he couldn’t get hard. His dick was a limp and useless thing. Until Peter came, it really didn’t even matter, he didn’t think about it because he had no use for arousal.  
  
Neal leaned his head against the window, the raindrops blurring the world just outside. Inside, Neal could hear the echoes of _them_ – their laughter, the sudden heart-stopping passion. They’d be playing cards, or reading or talking and Peter would look at him, he’d smile and touch him like he didn’t think he was real. Or he’d lift him up and carry him to the bed, and they’d lie there, carefully entwined. Peter kissing him, devouring him and he’d kiss back, pour out his soul into Peter’s willing self. He could feel Peter’s arousal, the hard bulge of his cock, and he’d start to grind against it. Until Peter pulled away – his refusal wasn’t a rejection – it was too much damn respect and concern for his still healing, still useless body.  
  
Maybe the time apart would help. Peter would have a very happy reunion with Elizabeth, and Neal could work on his – what? His non-existent stamina?  
  
He rolled away from the window, lined his chair up with his bed and lifted himself up and onto the mattress. His upper body strength was getting impressive, and his legs weren’t totally useless anymore, just weak. This little bit of independence still had the power to thrill him.  
  
The door was shut and no one would bother him until dinner time. He had plenty of privacy.  
  
Neal took a deep breath; he could feel the beginnings of a flop sweat forming at the base of his spine. “Come on, Caffrey – you can do this.” He laughed at his own pep-talk, which was probably counterproductive. He slid his hand inside his pants, a little startled. Not by the scars – they were a familiar feature, but all that ungroomed hair. He was once so meticulous about his person. Maybe he could get it trimmed. Or get someone to buy a trimmer for him.  
  
But he didn’t let the overgrown undergrowth dissuade him and he touched himself with sexual intent for the first time in a year and a half.  
  
And withdrew his hand. The months of dedicated physical development left his hands callused. Neal checked the bedside drawer. A small bottle of hand cream – that would do. And it certainly did, once he warmed it up. It felt nice, both strange and very familiar and he closed his eyes, letting images fill the space behind his eyelids. He held himself gently, schooled his breath and waited for his body to sync with the desire in his mind.  
  
Neal always had fantasies about Peter – going all the way back to the moment when he handed him that lime-green lollipop. They were a guilty pleasure during the years he was traveling through Europe – stealing Europe to be accurate – and even more when he was in prison. He recalled one where he was the seducer, where he was initiating Peter into all the pleasures of sex with another man.  
  
He stroked himself, up and down, in time with the rise and fall of Peter’s chest under his lips. His body didn’t respond, but Neal didn’t give up. Maybe some of the fantasies that weren’t sweet and gentle. Those were the ones that guaranteed a quick and powerful orgasm, ones that he didn’t like to use too often – he didn’t want to wear them out.  
  
He used to imagine Peter fully dressed, except for his cock erupting out of those Brooks Brothers suit pants. He’d be brandishing it like some fantastic, fleshy weapon, making him take it in his mouth, forcing it between his lips, bruising his throat. It wasn’t rape, because that was too real and too damaging, even for a fantasy. No – in his dreams, Peter was angry at him, but Neal wanted it – maybe he had done something to incite Peter’s anger and Peter would make him do things to earn forgiveness.  
  
The best part to these violent fantasies was what happened after, when Peter would take him in his arms, and tell him that everything was good, that he was good, and he was loved and he belongs to Peter.  
  
Neal would come in his fist, come splattering from the force of his orgasm and he’d practically blush at the memory. What was he doing, jerking off to the thought of a kinky sexual relationship with the FBI agent responsible for putting him in prison?  
  
And yet those fantasies persisted, through four years of angst and turmoil. When he was chasing after Kate, he’d imagine Peter telling him he had to make a choice – but it wasn’t so simple. He could have his pretty girlfriend and a life of respectability, or he could be Peter’s boy. Neal would lie on his bed, dick in his hand, pretending it was Peter holding him, stroking him, whispering like a devil on his shoulder. _“You want to give this up for Kate, you want me to go, you want to leave *this* behind?”_ Fantasy Peter would do something incredible with his hands and fingers, something that would make him whimper and whine and wordlessly beg. _“You go after Kate, we’re finished, it will be as if it never happened. You’re mine, Neal – and I don’t share.”_  
  
Peter’s voice, dark with intent, rang in his ears. Neal licked his lips, ready to respond that there was no one else, that Kate didn’t matter, that he was Peter’s now and forever.  
  
His body thrilled to this imaginary conversation. First there was a tingle in his thighs, a tightening in his belly, then an unexpected firmness. He held himself carefully, as if his cock was a small creature too frightened to move, and rubbed gently. In his mind, this was Peter’s hand, his own careful touch at odds with Peter’s fierce strength. Neal felt his arousal grow, the tingle becoming more like a rush as he stroked himself harder, as he felt his erection grow harder.  
  
And then nothing. It just stopped, and he was left with a limp dick and a mass of frustration.  
  
Neal pulled his hand out of his pants and considered what just happened. The frustration was still riding him, but so was satisfaction. He got a hard on. He got an erection. It was real. He was still a man.  
  
He threw his head back and laughed, happiness filling his soul. This – this was something he could work on. He could almost walk and he could almost wank, and it was only a matter of time before he’d do both more than almost.  
  
Only a matter of time.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Elizabeth’s flight was scheduled to land at a quarter to ten and he felt like he was waiting to pick her up on their first date. It wasn’t the first time that they’d been apart this long, but there was something momentous about it. Maybe it was the unspoken understanding that their lives were about to change – or had already changed.  
  
The past two months had been all about Neal’s physical recovery, and despite this week’s setback, his progress had been astonishing. Both Neal’s physical therapist and his orthopedic surgeon attributed it to Peter’s consistent presence, his daily participation in the therapy sessions, his constant attention.  
  
Peter didn’t doubt it. But he didn’t want to make it into something special. It was what friends did for each other. And that was why he didn’t want to go back to New York. Despite El’s contention that maybe they needed some time apart, it still felt like he was abandoning Neal.  
  
He paced the length of the waiting area and checked the arrivals board. With a slight thrill, Peter noticed that El’s flight was now marked as “Arrived.” It took another twenty minutes, but there she was, striding out of the gate area, looking a little tired but thoroughly gorgeous.  
  
To the bemusement and appreciation of the collection of limo drivers and other people waiting for arriving passengers, Peter swept his wife up in his arms and planted a very welcoming kiss. They actually received a smattering of applause, and he felt himself turning a little red.  
  
El, on the other hand, just smiled, her eyes glowing with happiness. “Hey, hon.”  
  
“Hon.” He kissed her again, just because she felt so good in his arms, and once more, just because he could. If this was New York, certainly there’d be some wise guy shouting at them to get a room, but the locals were too polite.  
  
Peter placed a quick call to the car service and arranged the pickup, they collected her luggage and with typical Swiss efficiency, were on their way to Montreux.  
  
“El – ” But before he could finish his sentence, she interrupted.  
  
“You’re not going back to New York?”  
  
“How did you guess?” Peter really wasn’t surprised, though.  
  
She shrugged. “After fifteen years of marriage and five years of sharing you with Neal, it was pretty obvious that you weren’t going to leave here without him. I knew you wouldn’t, so I left Satch with my sister.”  
  
“Hon …” He shook his head, still befuddled by her willing acceptance of his love for Neal.  
  
“Peter – don’t. You don’t have to justify this. Besides, if I didn’t love him too, do you think I’d be here?” She sighed and rested her head against his shoulder, a welcome weight. They had barely left the airport before she fell into a light doze.  
  
Peter wished he could join her, but his brain was too filled with love, with worry, to let him relax.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Peter had told her all about his little efficiency apartment, he had even sent pictures. But El wasn’t really prepared for the college dorm room feel of the place, especially the old fashioned double bed that was barely wider than her husband’s shoulders.  
  
She didn’t want to act like a spoiled princess; this really wasn’t a vacation after all, but still…  
  
“Come on.” Peter grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the door. “We’re not staying here.”  
  
“Peter, it’s okay.”  
  
But he didn’t listen to her and frankly, she didn’t want to argue. Fifteen minutes later, they had a room at the Meridian. The bed was huge, with a dozen soft pillows and clean white sheets. She kicked off her shoes, striped to her skin and climbed into it. El barely felt Peter kiss her cheek before she fell asleep.  
  
Quite a few hours later, El opened her eyes and closed them again. The unfamiliar angle of the sun across her face was painfully bright. But it was the scent of excellent coffee that brought her to complete wakefulness.  
  
Peter sat on the bed and handed her a tiny cup filled with the best espresso she ever tasted.  
  
“Good morning, Mrs. Burke.” Peter smiled, his whole voice smiled. “Your breakfast is ready.”  
  
She finished the coffee and exchanged the cup for a freshly baked croissant slathered with strawberry preserves. Satchmo would have been proud at the speed she wolfed it down. Peter kissed her sticky lips and made an mmming noise of appreciation.  
  
“I’ve fetched your luggage.” He tilted his head towards the closet. They had left it in Peter’s apartment the night before. “What do you want to do today?”  
  
“What I came to Switzerland for.”  
  
“Buying expensive chocolate and a new watch?”  
  
She laughed at Peter’s joke, and climbed out of the bed. “I want to see Neal.”  
  
Peter checked his watch. “He’s got a therapy session at ten that’s about two hours long and you can explore the area until we’re ready to meet you for lunch.”  
  
El looked at Peter, concerned.  
  
“What’s the matter?”  
  
“I thought you were going to take a break.”  
  
“I’m not going back to New York, El. I can’t. Not even for a week.”  
  
“I understand that – but you also agreed that maybe you needed a little distance.”  
  
“You were the one who suggested that.”  
  
Under different circumstances, El would have thought that Peter was adorable, with his hands in his pockets and a small pout. “Peter – you need a few days apart. You’re not abandoning him, understand?”  
  
He nodded, looking more like a five year old boy just told he couldn’t have another cookie than a fifty year old man who needed a break from his role as a caregiver.  
  
“Hon – take the day off. Get a little sunshine; buy me some really expensive chocolate, maybe a new watch?”  
  
Peter laughed and she swatted his ass as she passed him on the way to the bathroom.  
  
Elizabeth lingered in the shower, washing away the grime of travel and sleep. When she came out of the bathroom, all pink and damp, Peter looked at her like a man starved and whatever plans they might have had for walking around the city until it was time to go see Neal evaporated in a cloud of lust.  
  
There was definitely something to be said for reunion sex, and for post-shower sex, too. The heat and slide of Peter’s skin against hers, the familiar strength of his arms, the thrill of his cock rising to meet her, to bury itself in her cunt. She whispered in his ear, “Fuck me hard.” Peter’s eyes grew dark at her words and he flipped her over, his hands hard on her hips.  
  
“This what you want, wife?”  
  
“Oh, yeah.” Her assent was breathless, giddy.  
  
He fucked her – there was no other word for it. His hands like vices on her hips, his cock – huge and burning and hard as iron – hammered into her. It felt so good; powerful and perfect as she came over and over again.  
  
Peter came, a hard, deep grunt, and then kisses pressed along her shoulder, the nape of her neck, at the ticklish spot behind her ear that made her shiver. “Love you.”  
  
“Love you, too.” These words, without their precious shorthand, were freighted with meaning. And tucked carefully within the protective confines of Peter’s body, her own thrumming with satiation, a stray thought drifted through her mind; she verbalized it without consideration.  
  
“Do you do this with Neal?”  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Neal sweated through his therapy session, longing for Peter to see his triumphant first steps outside of the parallel bars. A mere dozen, using braces and canes, but they were steps he never thought he’d be able to take. The strength training afterwards was anticlimactic and he barely felt the rubdown, usually the favorite part of the session.  
  
His arms were sore, he felt more than a little shaky, but Neal waved off the aide who would have rolled him back to his room. He didn’t need anyone to push him anywhere anymore, and for the first time since the accident, he felt that recovery was not just a possibility, but an actuality.  
  
As he made it from the wheelchair to his lounger, his phone pinged with an incoming message. It was from Peter, typically short and to the point. _Miss you, can’t wait to see you. Behave and don’t slack off_.  
  
Neal grinned so hard his face hurt.  
  
 _No rest for the weary, take a look._ He attached the video one of the aides took of him walking in free space.  
  
Peter’s response was gratifyingly swift. _Damn. Of all the days not to be there. Keep it up. Love you._  
  
 _Love you too_. Deeper emotions churned through Neal’s joy. He set the phone aside and relaxed. He’d nap for an hour, have lunch and spend the rest of the day in the solarium with his sketchbook. The routine wasn’t all that different from when Peter was here, except that instead of napping, they’d spend the time talking. Or necking.  
  
The thought of Peter’s kisses made him lose all interest in sleeping. He reached for the bottle of hand cream, warmed it up in his palm and shoved his hand down his pants. Unlike his experiment yesterday, it didn’t take much for his body to react and he was almost _there_ when a sharp knock on his door interrupted him.  
  
Neal pulled his hand out and wiped it on his sweatpants before telling whoever was on the other side of the door to come in. He hoped he didn’t sound too aggravated.  
  
And all thoughts of wanking and aggravation and any-and-everything else evaporated when he recognized his visitor.  
  
Elizabeth Burke, breathtakingly gorgeous, swept into his room. Her keen eyes missed nothing – he watched them swiftly track around the space – from him to the bed to the view of Lake Geneva and even the open bottle of hand cream.  
  
“I don’t know what I expected to find when I came in here, but interrupting your jerk-off session wasn’t it.”  
  
“Elizabeth.” That was all Neal could say. He sat up, reached out for her. She looked pointedly at his right hand and smirked, before reaching out for him and hugging him tight.  
  
“Neal.” She whispered his name, no mocking humor in that single syllable, just relief.  
  
“What are you doing here?” He was delighted by this unexpected visit, but puzzled. In all the times they had spoken since Peter arrived – and they talked at least twice a week – El had said nothing about coming here. Their conversations revolved around nothing more strenuous than their day-to-day lives. They both deliberately kept the tone and subject matter light.  
  
El pulled back and gave him a long, hard look. “You seriously didn’t think I wouldn’t come to see you.”  
  
He took a deep breath, not sure whether to laugh or cry. “I guess the timing of Peter’s trip home wasn’t because something came up?”  
  
“No, sweetie. I thought that both of you could use a bit of a break. Just a few days. But I didn’t want you to be alone.”  
Now he was certain he’d cry. “El – ”  
  
“Neal.” His name had never seemed quite so freighted with meaning. “When you left Peter, it almost killed him.”  
  
Trust Elizabeth to cut right to the heart of things. “I needed some space.”  
  
“But to go, and to just tell him to send an email if there was a problem? How cold is that? After everything? After everything Peter’s sacrificed for you?”  
  
It was like being flayed by a swan. “I had to go.”  
  
“Because you loved him?”  
  
Neal looked at Elizabeth, not quite shocked. “Yes - because I loved _your husband_. And I still don’t understand how you can let Peter …”  
  
She placed two fingers across his lips. “Shut up. Just shut up and listen. Eighteen months ago, when you told us you were going to leave New York, I wanted to tell you that it was okay. I’ve been sharing Peter with you in almost every way but physically. I wanted to be jealous - I should have been jealous - but I couldn’t.” El paused and gave a little laugh. “It’s kind of hard to be jealous of two people you love so much.”  
  
There was a great roaring in his ears, his heart thumped and seemed to fall out of rhythm as the universe realigned itself. “But … I … ”  
  
“Not something to discuss over the phone, you know.” She pulled over a chair and they sat knee to knee. “I wanted to talk to you - to tell you that you didn’t need to go. But Peter - I don’t know if it was guilt or nobility or just plain stupidity - he told me not to. That you needed to explore your freedom, that you needed to find your feet and come back on your own terms.  
  
Peter had told him this. He had a hard time believing it then, but now - he had to believe it. “I don’t know if you could have made a difference - I think we were both too guilty, too noble. Too fucking stupid to listen to reason.”  
  
El squeezed his hand. “But you’ve worked it out.”  
  
Neal turned his hand in hers so he could caress the back of her hand with his thumb, resting it for a brief moment on her wedding band. “I’ve been an ungrateful son of a bitch to Peter this week, though.”  
  
“I know, Peter told me. He blamed himself for pushing you too hard.”  
  
Neal grimaced. “It wasn’t his fault - he wasn’t doing anything wrong.”  
  
“Then what was the matter?” El asked.  
  
He felt himself flushing.  
  
“Sweetie?”  
  
Neal could swear that El knew what was going on, and damn if she wasn’t going to make him tell her. “I was frustrated.”  
  
“But Peter says that you’ve made tremendous progress.” Maybe she didn’t.  
  
“Not with walking - with _other_ things.” Neal let his eyes drift over to the still-open bottle of hand cream.  
  
“Ah.” Now she got it. “You’ve been terribly injured. I’m sure that the doctors have told you to be patient.”  
  
“Yeah, well. But there comes a point … And I’ve wanted Peter for so long.” There - it was out there.  
  
El bit her lip, and it was her turn to blush. “Is it working?”  
  
Neal grinned. “I’m getting there.” He thought of all sorts of double entendres, using humor to deflect. But El knocked him back with her next question.  
  
“Is it all for Peter?”  
  
“El?” Neal thought he knew what she was saying, but he needed to be certain.  
  
“Do you think that you could want me, too?” Her voice was small, but there was mischief glittering in her eyes.  
  
“Does the sun rise in the east?” Neal leaned forward and did something he had only dreamed of - something that was more of an impossibility than loving and being loved by Peter. He kissed Elizabeth, with desire and intent. And she kissed him back, with desire, but there was also a touch of something else - shyness, certainly - and caution, too.  
  
They broke apart, both laughing.  
  
El suddenly looked nervous, “I’ve got something to confess.”  
  
“Unless you plan on telling me that this is all a dream and I should wake up now, nothing you can say would make me upset.”  
  
“I was the one who suggested that Peter go back to New York for a week. I wasn’t trying to interfere, I was just worried.”  
  
“It’s okay, I think we both needed a short breather. And if his going back to New York meant that you could come to Montreux, then it’s doubly fine.”  
  
El bit her lip at looked at him from under her lashes, an expression that Neal had discovered early on meant trouble.  
  
“What is it?"  
  
“Peter’s still here. He never went home. He was going to - he even booked a flight but cancelled it. He couldn’t leave you here.” The words came out in a rush. “He wanted to come today - but I asked him not to. I wanted to see you alone. Can you understand that?”  
  
Neal wasn't sure at first what to feel. He was a little hurt at first, that Peter had kept himself distant, but he understood why. And ultimately, he was glad that Elizabeth came alone. It gave them a chance to really talk. “You know, you aren’t the only one with a confession to make.”  
  
She looked at him and he licked his lips. This was something he needed to tell her.  
  
“There’s something you should know. Something I haven’t told Peter.” There was no humor in him now. He reached out and grasped Elizabeth’s hand. “I was going to come home. I was going to try to make it work. I would have put aside _those_ feelings - because hurting you would be the worst crime I ever committed.” Neal licked his lips. “That night - I had gone for a drive into the mountains. I was bored and antsy and angry that the freedom I had so wanted was so damned lonely. I pulled off and watched the sun set over the lake and decided that I needed to go home.”  
  
“New York - that’s home.” El’s voice was soft, filled with understanding.  
  
“Yes - and you and Peter … you’re my home.” He shook his head, still bitter. “And my life all but ended. Bad timing. The story of my life. I pause for a second and everything changes.” He was thinking of Kate, of Ellen.  
  
“You can come home now, Neal. Come home to the people who care about you. Who love you.”  
  
There was a knot in the back of his throat, a lump of tears and regrets. “I’m still a mess, El. I want to come home - you have no idea how much - but …” Neal swallowed and somehow found the courage that was missing all those times that he called Peter’s phone and never left a message; all the times he looked at the photos of his friends - his _family_ \- and never reached out to them. “I’m scared. I’m scared I’ll never be all right again.” Simple words that barely scratched the surface.  
  
But Elizabeth understood. “We’ll take you anyway we can.”  
  
The fear washed away with her words and he bowed his head, as if accepting her blessing. “Thank you.”   
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
  


  
  
**Early November**  
  
Neal texted Peter, letting him know that he’d be home around ten o’clock.  
  
 _Home_. That word felt so good. His official residence was still June’s Riverside Drive mansion, but most of his days and nights were spent with Peter and Elizabeth in Brooklyn.  
  
They understood why he kept the apartment. They understood his occasional need to retreat into solitude and create, and that sometimes it was just easier to take the creaking elevator up to the fourth floor than to climb the fifteen steps to their bedroom.  
  
Despite three doctors’ appointments and a grueling physical therapy session, tonight wasn’t one of those nights. Neal felt strong and vital.  
  
And disappointed when he let himself into the house, only to find the downstairs deserted. But looking up the staircase, he could see the light from the master bedroom and he smiled.  
  
The stairs were a slow climb, they always would be no matter how much he exercised, how strong he was. There were too many missing bits that would have made the movement easy and painless. He walked into the bedroom; both Peter and Elizabeth were reading and looked up when he entered.  
  
“How did it go?” Peter doffed the cheaters he’d started to wear.  
  
Neal wanted to tell him to leave the glasses on. He always got a thrill out of seeing Peter wear them. “The orthopedist was pleased and has discharged me.”  
  
“Oh, sweetie - that’s wonderful.” El got out of bed and hugged him. “What does that mean, though?”  
  
Neal chuckled and gave her a kiss. “It means that he will no longer need to follow my case, and I only need to see him if I’m having problems.”  
  
“You’re not stopping therapy?” That was Peter’s question.  
  
“No - that’s something I’ll need for a while yet. I had suggested working with a trainer at a gym, but the doctor recommended against that. I’ll be better off with the specialists at the physical therapy center.” Neal sat down on the chair, enjoying the picture of Elizabeth in her blue satin pajamas, Peter in bed - in a bed that had room for him.  
  
“You had a few other appointments?” Peter didn’t ask directly, that wasn’t his way.  
  
Neal sighed and grimaced. “The neurologist is being cautious about the thing with my hands. Could be just the herniated discs or something else. I’m scheduled for a few tests next week.” Despite the doctor’s caution, he wasn’t particularly worried. The slight numbness didn’t affect his day-to-day life, and it had gotten no worse since the problem first manifested last year.  
  
“One of us will go with you.”  
  
“Peter - that’s not necessary.”  
  
“Yes, it is.”  
  
Neal didn’t think he needed anyone to come with him, but he still secretly thrilled to Peter’s insistence.  
  
Elizabeth came and sat on the edge of the chair. She watched him like a hawk watches for prey. “And what about the last appointment?”  
  
Neal swallowed and didn’t look at either of his lovers. Peter got up and joined them.  
  
“Neal?”  
  
He took a deep breath. “They declined my request.”  
  
Peter hugged him. “I’m sorry.” El joined them.  
  
Neal fought free of their arms. “Hey, it’s okay - really.”  
  
“I know how much this mattered to you.”  
  
“But it doesn’t matter to you, right?” Neal looked at both of them, suddenly needing their understanding.  
  
“Of course - the scars never mattered to us.”  
  
The last thing Neal had done before he left the clinic in Montreux was have the scars on his face revised and reduced. There were a set of fine lines now; more “added character” rather than “eye-catching deformities” in Neal’s mind. But the scars on his torso and legs, legacies from the numerous surgeries, were another story.  
  
Peter once called them a roadmap to recovery, and Neal sort of laughed at the cliché. It was true, but it didn’t mean he had to like them. Even tonight, at the pool, people couldn’t take their eyes off them. He seriously thought about getting a one-piece racing swimsuit, but as vain as he was, Neal thought it seemed too much like hiding.  
  
“What did the surgeon say, exactly?”  
  
Neal sighed at Elizabeth’s question. She was the direct one, these days. “There are too many scars and not enough undamaged skin. Some of them are too deep and it would be too risky - particularly on the ones on my knee. I could probably find a plastic surgeon willing to do the work, but a reputable doctor wouldn’t do it.”  
  
Neither Peter nor Elizabeth said anything, but their touch was comfort enough.  
  
“Nearly dying has a way of putting life into perspective. They are a small price to pay for survival. I can live with them. ” That was the truth of it.  
  
“And so can we.” Peter drew him up and out of the chair - his intent obvious. Neal quivered, his arousal - the miracle of it - came at him hard and fast.  
  
Neal felt Peter’s hand spear through his hair, holding him still. Elizabeth curled close against his back, like a cat. Peter’s mouth found the sensitive point where his neck met his shoulder, and he bit down gently and then soothed him with a wet kiss. Arousal coursed through his veins like a freshly uncorked bottle of Champagne, and he rolled his hips against Peter’s. Neal reveled in the feel of Peter’s mouth on his skin, his cheek slightly rough against his neck, Peter’s hand cupping the back of his head, and the other hand against his cheek, holding him like he was something rare and precious.  
  
Elizabeth’s hands were at his fly, dragging his flesh out into the cool air, stroking at the hardness of his cock. He moaned, and Peter caught it with his own mouth. There were times when kissing Peter was like doing battle, no quarter given or received. Peter nipped and bit hard at his lips, his tongue licking, hot and wet and demanding. Neal pressed into Peter’s mouth, his own tongue polishing against Peter’s teeth, his teeth biting back at Peter’s own lips.  
  
He felt Elizabeth’s hot breath against his neck, and her mouth doing something to the hand in his hair. Peter’s whole body shuddered against him as Elizabeth’s hands slipped her husband’s pajamas off and dragged his cock against Neal’s. The twin sensation of her hands stroking him, and the hot length of Peter burning against him was almost more pleasure than he could bear. He loved this feeling of being taken over. There was no past to deal with, no scars, no damage and recovery. It was just the here and now of Peter and Elizabeth, their hot hands and wet mouths and their hardness and softness.  
  
Elizabeth started to undress him, her small hands delicately unknotting his tie, and working each button loose, pulling the shirt from his pants, spreading her hands against his chest, then down one arm to undo the buttons at his cuff, and then the other. His dress shirt seemed to disappear. Elizabeth tugged off his undershirt, and knelt at his feet to remove his shoes and socks, then pulled down his pants, his briefs. She stood and hugged him again. Elizabeth, with her hands moving like butterflies, stripped him and Neal smiled.  
  
Peter caught that smile. “What?”  
  
“Squire Elizabeth.” Neal turned his head to catch Elizabeth’s eyes. “You strip me of my armor so effectively.”  
  
Peter pulled him over to the bed, pinning him to the rumpled covers. Neal looked up into Peter’s eyes – dark against the pallor of his face, and he reached up to brush his fingers against those eyelids, down his cheek, across his lips – to touch, and to be made real. Neal shivered when Peter kissed his fingers, his palm, his wrist, brushing his lips against the fading scars that he found there.  
  
Neal shivered again when Peter’s face, so gentle and then so fierce, moved in close, blotting out the rest of the universe. Peter devoured his mouth, as if Neal was his sole sustenance. He bucked against Peter, seeking greater contact, trying to gain some leverage. Peter rolled over, so he was behind him, curved around him, protective and sheltering.  
  
Neal felt Elizabeth’s hands on him again, stroking the lines and ridges that marred his belly, where they cut into him to save his life over and over again. Her lips followed, and Neal moaned in wonder. Those marks had suddenly become an erogenous zone, ley lines to his sex. Her mouth drifted down, hot and wet against his cock. The sudden coolness when she pulled away was delicious, but Peter’s body was burning against his back, and his cock was even hotter against his ass, was equally delightful.  
  
El came back, her hand cool with lube as she prepared him for Peter. Her clever fingers stretched him, first one, two, then three fingers flexing against his hole. Peter whispered something dirty to him, about wanting to see him take her whole hand and Neal heard himself whimper, unbearably aroused.  
  
Peter pulled him closer and Neal pushed back. As well-stretched and slicked as he was, it was still a shock when Peter first breached him. Peter’s size, his heat, the incredible intimacy of the act, his love and possession and wonder broke him and rebuilt him with each stroke.  
  
Neal tried to contain himself, to save something for Elizabeth, but Peter was merciless, driving into him at the perfect angle each time. When Peter growled, “You’re perfect to us, you have to know that,” Neal came, his world burning into white, his cock pulsing in Peter’s fist, his come pouring out on to the sheets. Peter worked into him for a few more strokes, and then finally surrendered his own control.  
  
Neal turned his head, to see Elizabeth, naked, her fingers working into herself, her eyes opened and blind from her own climaxes. He tried to reach her, but he was still impaled on Peter’s cock, formidable even in its post-orgasmic state. He winced a bit as Peter finally withdrew, sore in a good and satisfied way. He watched as Peter gently replaced her fingers with his own. He heard Elizabeth’s keening and wondered if he sounded like that, too, when Peter was working him over.  
  
The three of them collapsed back on the bed, a sweaty mass of satiated flesh. Neal’s heart slowed, his brain relaxed and as he felt himself drifting into sleep, he felt his lovers’ fingers drifting across his scars, their touch always healing him.  
  
  


FIN

  
  


  
  


 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Notes: Writing physical H/C doesn’t come naturally to me, so I’ve had a lot of cheerleading along the way. First and always, when it comes to laying on the hurt, is rabidchild, she helped me sort out some of my issues early on, and even though this story sat for a long time, her words of wisdom stuck with me. Also very special thanks to both winterstar95 and arsenicjade. These ladies are also H/C queens who helped me get the wheels of this story going after it stalled in a great fit of uncertainty.
> 
> Of course, it goes without saying that nothing would have been written without my cheerleaders and dearest friends, Miri_Thompson and coffeethyme4me. Their encouragement made everything possible.
> 
> Many thanks to elainasaunt for her suggestion to set it in Montreux, which worked perfectly. 
> 
> A very special thank you to kanarek13, who created all of the lovely art you see here – the cover, the banners and the icons. 
> 
> Title from the Carol King classic, You’ve Got a Friend.


End file.
